Vines of Blood & Music
by Arelya-Andaria
Summary: Vampire AU - After the events of the Garnier Opera House, vampire Erik goes into exile in Provence, a beautiful, wild region South of France, where he waits out his days trying - and failing - to move on. Young Soprano Christine goes back to her childhood home, lost in the vines, after her father's death, and her dreams shattering. They meet and begin to heal one another.
1. Christine I - The House

*-* Christine I - The House

Ever since he died, she hasn't had the courage to go to that house. Lost in the middle of Provence, an ancient thing passed down in her family for generations. It's a beautiful house, made of old pink stones, with few windows to keep the fresh air in, and a roof of red tiles. A garden of wild flowers and fruit trees.

Always felt like a fairytale home, especially when she was a young girl and her father drove them there to spend the summer, after a school year in Paris in their tiny flat.

She would spend her days running through the vines, drunk on the open air, the smell of lavender and pine.

The hills in the distance. The olive trees with their green grey leaves, the sun hot on her shoulders, the wind, strong and warm tangling her hair. The river that flowed down their property, lazy and quiet.

Her father would play, as well, and she was called home by the echo of the melody on the wind.

It was their refuge, two months during which she ran and sang and just was, free to be and live just as much as she wanted. They would play in the markets, in the small villages around their home, each more pittoresque than the other, on silent hills, nestled around forests and rock pits.

It was as if time had no empire on these stones, life going on as slow as it had been nearly a century before. The roads were still small and sinuous, passing through thousands of vine lands and around the hills. The cicadas incessant buzzing drowning every other sound, and the wind, moving in the trees.

It was that life she remembered, with tears in her eyes, as she made her way down from the capital. As she left the highway and took the small roads to reach their house, feeling the sun's hot gaze on her hair, as unblinking as it had been five years ago. The last time she had made the journey, with her father.

Now she was alone, and she felt him by her side, could remember the giddy excitation she'd felt every time she took that road, the promise of two months of lazy walks in the paths around their house. The smell of the barbecues they made, how they would stare at night at the sky, how he would name every star they could see.

It felt like a lifetime ago, that giddiness and freedom.

After a day on the road, she reached the small path leading to their house. Her house, now. Everything belonged to her alone, now.

She couldn't remember her mother, dead of cancer while she was still an infant. Her papa had cared for her, been her only anchor in that whole wide world, her stone house in the midst of a violent thunderstorm.

Now that he was gone, she was drifting, not knowing her way.

Still, she'd gone on with their shared dream: of becoming part of the Conservatoire in Paris, in singing. She had the voice of an angel, her papa always said, and she had attempted the concours, not once, but twice.

After this failure, she'd quit. Left Paris on a snap, taken the first road, back to where she'd started. Her dream had been everything to her, the only thing keeping her sane after her papa had left her.

And now…

Now…

What would she become?

What would she do?

Perhaps the answer was hidden in that old house, where her dearest memories still lay.

Her fingers were shaking when she opened the door. Inside, nothing had moved. The air felt stale, and she could see the small dress she'd forgotten on the top of a shelf, and how she'd whined when they'd left and she found it missing.

"You won't need it," her father had said. "We'll get you another one for next spring, and you'll get it when we come back."

He had never come back.

She threw open the windows, letting light and wind enter what felt like both a tomb and a sanctuary. A place untouched by the sadness she'd felt.

On the mantel of the fireplace were her most cherished photographs: the three of them, mother, father, and baby Christine, here, for her first summer. She was a year old, and already had the first wisps of golden hair, and "the bluest eyes he'd ever seen", her papa had told her.

She looked like her mother now, all Swedish, with perhaps a bit more flesh than she'd had, generous curves that had never bothered her.

Strong arms and thighs from running up and down the hills, from helping her papa whenever there was work to do to renovate that old thing they called a house.

In his eyes, she'd always felt beautiful.

Now all she could remember were the lines of thin girls waiting for their turns during the rehearsals she'd attended to prepare herself. They wouldn't stare, of course, but that was what perhaps hurt the most.

She was invisible.

A shadow, alone and cold, in a city as grey and cold as she felt.

Now, with the sun hot and vibrant over the green hills, and the colors of a thousand flowers, she would feel alive again.

She wasn't very sure where to begin, though.

Her parents'room, next. The bed, cold, and uninviting. The wardrobe, a huge wooden thing, sculpted when her papa would have a moment, one panel at a time.

She quickly left it alone, blocking the memories that threatened her.

Her room hadn't changed, of course. There was still her teddy bear from her childhood, one she'd won at a nearby fair. The years and her constant attention had not been kind to it. He was missing an ear, and one of its eyes was nearly blind. Part of his face was half-chewed, from when a stray dog had found it in her errands and she'd screamed it away. Her papa had done his best to mend it, but he would always bear the marks of the encounter.

Still, he was fluffy and smelled nice and comforting when she hugged it, letting that small token calm her heart.

Erik, she'd called it. From the fairy tale her father had always told her, in the book from her mother's childhood. A mermaid's prince, mysterious and gifted, one she'd always loved.

"He will bring you luck", her papa had said.

He had, over the years, as she grew into her talent, hoping to make a career out of that, as her papa had done. But it seemed now all the luck had run out, and she drew her gaze away from his warm but misshaped eyes, to sink into her bed.

She was weary and dirty from the road, with just some food and drinks waiting for her in her car, and she fell asleep.

When she woke up, it was night. The cicadas had quieted, the moon had risen, and there were no other lights than the stars, white points in a sea of impenetrable darkness. The wind was quiet in the trees, and it felt still warm.

She felt hungry, and went to her car to retrieve a few things to spend the night. She showered, and climbed onto the roof to watch the night sky, a sandwich in hand.

She could see her shadow, so bright was the moon. Her cheeks still felt wet and aching, from her earlier tears. Had it been a mistake, coming here? After all, if Paris had reminded her of her father, every single day, how could this place fail to do it, when every stone bore his mark? When they had put their love in each corner, every strike of paint on the walls?

The tears came back, when she had sworn a few months ago they never could, so much had she cried and cried. A great, deep well, never to end, never to dry, fueling the pain in her heart.

Numb. Despite the warmth, the silver glow of the moon, she felt cold and numb.

And during those times, there was only one thing that could ever hope to soothe her heart if only for a moment.

She closed her eyes, and started to sing. Her voice echoed on the surrounding hills, the sound pure and clear, despite the tears in her voice, the shaking at times, and she let it ring, over and over, the same verses never feeling quiet enough, never meaningful enough.

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_How can I ever say goodbye?_

Feeling like a waste of space, feeling like she would never be enough, never be good enough to fulfill their dreams. Her dreams, the fire in her heart, the star she'd kept burning, low and so vulnerable.

When she finished, her voice hoarse and tired, she didn't move. The moon had moved, crossed the sky over to the west, and the stars had dimmed ever so slightly.

She could feel the tremors of dawn, the barely there brightening in the eastern sky.

Now her body felt numb, but some of the ache had quieted. Her head felt clearer than it had been when she'd begun. Not nearly enough to be sane, but it would have to suffice.

For now.


	2. Erik I - Hunger

*-* Erik I - Hunger

Night had come again and with it the relentless hunger. Or was it thirst? It'd been his companion much too long to care, by now. Too long without food or drink, other than that longing for blood, that he'd forgotten even their taste.

Not that he'd liked it much to begin with.

He had mastered it, of course, could be his same self as before. Stronger, of course, smarter, faster. His gifts had been even greater.

But the fear he'd inspired had also grown, and that was what had driven him South, away from the changes of the big city. It had always been a gamble, staying there. At the opera house, he'd thought he could let time go and spend his eternity doing the things he loved. But after those incidents, he'd thought it best to leave and start anew. Or wait to die.

He'd tried, the gods knew he'd tried to die, but nothing had helped.

Immortality, both a gift and a curse.

One that had made his suffering even more unbearable.

His love had never faded, even when she'd died, and her young man, now an old, frail man had followed her to the grave, he had stayed there, no less a corpse than them, still living, still moving, his heart still in pieces.

He still went to her grave every year, on her death day. Still put the flowers she'd loved, still wept over her loss and her choice.

They had given her the honors, of course, a white tomb, headstone of pure marble, an inscription, of a famed singer, beloved wife and mother.

The following years, she always had flowers, always had people, family, friends and admirers alike coming to pay their respects at her grave. Now, a hundred years later, the markings had faded, and a few other graves had joined her. Her husband, her daughter. Her daughter's sons.

She still had living relatives, but he'd kept away, as he'd promised, when she'd left him, putting his ring back into his hands.

He was forgiven, but would never start anew.

How could he, when his heart was still burning for her, a hundred and thirty years later?

When he'd left the opera house, leaving nearly everything behind, he'd only brought her portrait. It'd been a gift, from the diva herself to her angel of music, the only one she'd ever given him, and one he'd kept close ever since.

Not even the organ he'd painstakingly built inside his home under the Palais Garnier had been the recipient of so much love. There was also one shoe buckle, and a ribbon from her hair, small tokens that she'd left behind.

These were prized as well, and no less dear to his heart.

Beating no longer, but still aching, unbearable, every single, lonely night.

He'd built a castle, deep in the forest, on a hill overlooking the plains. From there, he'd spend the rest of time, in a place forgotten and lonely, beautiful and wild, where time still flew differently, away from the rush of modernity.

The years had changed him, only a bit. He was wiser, quieter. Nothing could move him anymore, he thought. He went through his no-life as a moving corpse, from hunger to music, from playing and composing to sleepless days, from reading and painting to drinking blood again.

It had to be his penitence, for his many sins.

He didn't believe, never had, for how could a god, good and powerful, inflict on a small, innocent infant so much pain? And then he'd been cursed with that bite, when he was curious and wandering the wild, remote places of the world. He'd thought it a gift, to be immortal, to spend the rest of time practicing his many talents.

But now, what was the point in making beauty and art, if he was the only one to bear witness to it? What was the point of bleeding, aching fingers, when no one could hear the music he made, the notes he tore out of his violin, to see the paintings he made out of his hopes and nightmares?

There was no point at all.

So this lonely night, with his unbeating heart, he started out looking for someone to eat from, someone who would go on with their life, none the wiser, who would fall in love and marry and have children and an ordinary life, and die at peace, surrounded by love and family.

He'd only ever wished for that, and it was the only thing he could never, _ever_ get.


	3. Erik & Christine II - A Cry in the Night

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, I wasn't expecting people to like it so much, and I'm really hoping what follows will be to your taste!  
_

**Erik II - A cry in the night**

Yet, that night, a cry pierced the sky, with an intensity he hadn't felt in so very, very long.

A cry for help, a longing for peace, and he felt drawn to it, hunger forgotten, everything else forgotten.

He'd always moved like the shadows, kept to the dark and silent - becoming a vampire had only ever improved that.

It was so he approached the voice, silvery and bright, echoing from a rooftop.

He'd long thought the house abandoned, as there was no one there during the year. There had been people, long ago, or was it just a few years ago? He couldn't remember.

Time flowed differently now.

He tried to think. No. He'd never noticed that house before. Never noticed the young woman on its roof, singing her heart out. It made his heart ache, and his throat seize with thirst.

Still, he didn't move. Stayed far, far away, just enough to listen to her, but not nearly enough for a mere human to feel his presence.

What was it she was singing? He didn't know that song. Of course, he hadn't really stayed up to date on these things. Music these days didn't have the magnificence and opulence he was used to. There was nothing he'd liked more than full orchestras, and they had become scarce.

Still, the Internet had been a useful invention, allowing him to wallow in his memories, blasting symphonies long in the night, finding the ones worthy of his keen ears.

But this, even a cappella, riding on the wind, stirred his imagination. The words spoke to him.

_I love you._

_I miss you._

It shouldn't have, not when it'd been so long ago, but he couldn't help it.

He remained there, listening, until he felt his skin begin to tingle. The sun would soon appear, and she'd stopped singing. Dawn was near, and he still hadn't eaten.

He had to go back to his castle, and he'd eat the next day. After all, he wasn't that thirsty, drunk on her song, and her voice.

He flew back to his darkened rooms, fleeing the first rays of the sun, and lay down in his coffin, his ears still ringing with her voice.

The next night, he went to eat, finding a young man walking back home, and only took a little. It wasn't the best blood he'd tasted, far from it, but it was clean and warm, and it soothed the thirst, letting him free to do what he willed during the next hours.

How he hated summer, with its small precious hours of darkness he couldn't waste, but she was there, again, on her roof, singing and crying both.

He couldn't cry anymore himself. His horrible face would distort and grimace, but the tears themselves would never fall again.

From his position, hidden from the moon, he could see hers, tracing silver paths on her golden cheeks. She was beautiful.

Why was she crying tonight? Who – or what? – had torn out her heart?

He felt drawn to her, again. It was a most peculiar feeling, after so long, but he could see something, somehow.

Just like the night before, he stayed there, listening to her song.

Forgotten, the dreams of music. There was only her voice, pure and ethereal. She had freshness he hadn't heard in a century. Talent he'd thought he'd never hear again.

But she wasn't Christine, of course.

And still…

Would he repeat the story?

NO.

No.

He had to move on, to go away, never to come back.

But it was too late.

He remained there, and the night after that, and the next.

She seemed to draw him out from his numbness, awoke things he'd sworn to let go.

It would end badly, he knew it.

But despite the century, it seemed he hadn't learnt his lesson. No matter what, he was attracted by beauty and music, and could never resist the siren's call.

This time, she didn't need any more training, the way She had, long ago. Her voice had all the beauty she needed, all the control and the power and the clarity she could desire. He couldn't understand why in the heavens she was still here, as young and talented as she was, and not on a stage, ravishing and stunning audience after audience, winning hearts and souls.

Had they become so deaf in his years in exile, that they couldn't recognize beauty when it fell on their laps?

That injustice was enough to pour oil on the embers of his heart. He had a mission, now. He had to know, if nothing else. Make her see her potential, and then, then…

Then he'd return to his exile, death and silence and pain.

* * *

***-* Christine II – A sight in the night**

She had sung the night away, and fallen asleep again, on the roof. The next morning, her hunger had woken her, and she'd gone to buy more food.

That same evening, she stood on her roof again, her voice clear and strong as she sang, eyes fixed on the moon and stars. The tears flowed anew, but she didn't dry them. There was no point, when they came at the slightest emotion her songs evoked.

She didn't even know why, at this point. Was it her father's death, her memories from happier times brought up again by coming back here?

Was it her boyfriend's departure for the Sea, leaving her free, or alone, depending on who you asked?

Or her latest failure, despite her years of work to succeed where she thought she belonged, on a stage, singing and acting? Few places, few were chosen, but she'd always believed she'd be part of them.

Now it hurt again, and her voice took on a more sorrowful color. She shouldn't be feeling sorry for herself, not again, but after years, literally, of being strong and told to move on, to stop taking things so deeply to heart, perhaps now the time had come to let herself feel things, truly, away from the eyes of people who'd never felt like this, who thought they knew what she was going through, but they didn't.

They couldn't.

They meant well, of course, but they didn't live her life. Didn't feel like she did.

Didn't have the nightmares, and the blood curdling screams during the nights.

That was perhaps, why she kept singing there, where no one would judge her, no one would stop her.

And despite it all, it felt _right_.

Like maybe she was meant to be there, for once.

It came on the fifth night, when she warmed up her voice, just before she started to sing. She could feel something. A slight tingle in the air, a movement, deep in the shadows. It caught her eyes, and she stopped.

That was when she saw him for the first time.

His eyes, piercing the darkness, golden and bright, like two points of light, almost a cat's.

That was what she believed they were, at the beginning, until their stillness and their intelligence shattered that thought.

There _was_ someone out there, watching her, and her heart beat faster. Whatever he was, he'd been hearing her, and embarrassment came out, red cheeks and clammy hands. She shouldn't feel that way still, after all the time she'd spent being praised for her voice in years past. Being refused at the Opera House didn't make her voice any less beautiful or a thing to be ashamed of.

But someone was watching her and she didn't know who and…

He moved.

Barely an inch, but it was dark and she could see it, in the moonlight, he was coming closer.

"Who are you?" she asked, then, bold and perhaps a little risky, after all, in these parts, there were hardly any good people at night, but she belonged there and had never had any cause to fear.

He did not answer, but also stopped moving.

She could see a silhouette now, when there was only slightly more than a shape against the vineyard.

He must have been a man, for how tall and thin he was, dark and still, almost looming towards her. He was looking at her, his eyes always golden and bright.

"Who are you?" she repeated, a bit stronger now, and she was leaning towards him as well, trying to get a better look at him.

And then in a twirl of cloak he was gone.

The spell was broken, the night feeling alive and vibrant once more, animals crawling on the green and brown soil, wind rocking the trees, and humming in the bushes.

Her heart was still racing, though.

She came back inside, not feeling quite safe up there anymore. It _was_ late, after all. The dawn was approaching.

She fell on her bed, still clothed, eyes on the teddy bear on her windowsill. He was looking at her with his mismatched eyes, and the familiarity of a thousand such nights soothed her heart, and let her fall asleep, as the first rays of the sun caressed her skin.


	4. Erik & Christine III - The Letter

_Hope you'll like the next chapter, and happy reading! :)_

*-* Erik III – The Letter

He was a coward. More than a century old, and still he was afraid of the slightest girl. Much like he was, before. He should have known better, now, but who could he fool? He didn't look different from those days – and how he wished he could! Inside, he was back to those days approaching his Angel in her dressing room. How he had fled, too, that first time when he had made himself known.

Back then his fear of being known had made things difficult for the start. He could see that now. This time, he had to show himself for who he was. After all, what had he to lose? Nothing.

He didn't like her, didn't love her, and nothing would change if she went out screaming when he revealed himself.

The gods knew he was used to it now. And yet, in the forgotten place where his heart used to beat, he knew he would badly bear the rejection.

But better do it now, and suffer a little bit, than wait, and still bear the marks a hundred years later.

Then how?

He couldn't just go out and introduce himself. He hadn't done that in hundred years… Had he ever done it, at all? He couldn't remember. Even a century ago, with his old friends, it had never been properly done. His mask made introductions awkward. And after he'd become a vampire, more so.

When they'd died, he'd stayed alone. A thing of the past, locked away, no one to remember him, to think of him, when he could still remember everything, everyone. Would always bear their marks on his unbeating, aching heart.

But this was a new opportunity. Perhaps the chance to move on, finally, to let go of his old shackles.

Back in the safety of his halls, he strode to his bedroom. There stood the old oaken desk he still used for correspondence. With the passing of the years, he had had all the time to improve his letters. Now, he had a somewhat passable handwriting. The cruel irony, of course, was that by now, the shiny computer he'd bought was making the damn thing useless.

But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he would make his efforts pay, to write her a letter the way he had painstakingly learnt.

The paper was heavy and creamy, a nice, delicate thing he was still receiving yearly by his favorite stationary seller back in the capital. One of the few things he was still buying from up there. He'd found a great candle maker, with a hundred different perfumes as he'd only dreamt back then, in a little town he'd bribed into shipping him several boxes a year, no questions asked.

Now, what to write her?

_"__Hello, I'm a vampire and I like your singing very much" _

Could he be more childish if he tried? He thought not.

_"__I heard you last night and I thought you were very good. By the way, I'm a vampire and ugly."_

Even worse. He'd sworn after the last mess that he had let his creepy days behind. Now wasn't the time to begin again.

Thirty-three attempts later, and a raging headache burgeoning (could this happen for vampires?), he'd finally penned what could pass for a plausible invitation to hear her again.

_"__Dearest Singer,_

_Last night, I was just wandering through the fields and happened to hear you. I would very much like to make your acquaintance in a more appropriate way. I'm sorry if I frightened you last night, it was never my intent. I would understand if you did not consider my invitation, but please know I shall be in the vicinity tonight, should you happen to sing again and wish to make a friend._

_Yours in fondness,_

_Erik."_

Now that was… Acceptable. He'd come a long way since his muttering, blubbering days, thankfully, but that didn't mean he had mastered the uses of conversation. And if he had, they had changed a lot in a century.

He was a fool to even try.

But still he set out to post it directly into her letterbox.

The sun was climbing already, and he had to burrow himself in layers of clothes so as not to burn.

All in black, frail and tall, in black layers, he almost looked like a reaper, at dawn like this, wandering through the fields. He was too quick to be seen, unless he wished to be, and that, too, had been one of the highlights of his becoming a vampire.

He came back, new hope a strange thing in his missing heart, and went to sleep.

* * *

*-* Christine III – The Letter

She had this letter in hand, and did not know what to make of it. A polite stranger. A bit creepy, but polite. He wished to hear her again, and meet her.

Why?

Was it an elaborate joke?

After all, he hadn't answered to her call, and some part of her wondered if she'd really seen him. If that _Erik_ wasn't just some trick of her mind, an animal she'd frightened away with her cries.

Silly, but… This was sillier. To think someone would take the time to send her a letter, to write her something like that instead of just going out to meet with her in the day…

If he was real, then he was stranger than everyone else she knew.

And that name…

_Erik._

That name… Was it fate, perhaps? To have that name she'd cherished all her childhood thrown at her, like that, when she could still see from the corner of her eyes her teddy bear on her windowsill?

But it was no dream.

The paper she held was beautiful, heavy, probably expensive. Ancient-looking, too. The handwriting was careful, each stroke decisive and precise, as if every word had been purposefully set down.

A very real invitation.

Either she would sing tonight, knowing there would be a strange man waiting for her, or keep silent, and perhaps even leave altogether...

But her curiosity was high and aroused, and her stubbornness left her reluctant to stop what had become a beloved habit, to sing her heart out at night, when the day was ugly and unfair.

It had been day when her father had gone. A cold, empty morning. Winter light, garish and bleak. She'd sought comfort in the night instead, afterwards. Could pretend he wasn't gone. Could pretend he was still asleep in the next room, and she didn't have to face breakfast and dinner alone. Coming back to an empty house. Dealing with all the stuff no woman should have to deal with so young. He'd still been so very young…

At night, she could play pretend, could almost believe she wasn't an orphan.

Night was her time, now, her only solace, and she needed it.

That stranger would _not_ take it away from her.

Tonight she would be ready to meet with him. On her own terms.

And who knew?

After all, if he really had been taken by her singing, maybe she wasn't so bad…

When night came again, she was ready. She had warmed up her voice, and sat down on the roof as the sun began to set on the top of the hills behind her, the grass and vines covered in soft reddish and pink light. It was still pleasantly warm, and the wind was gently blowing in her hair.

The promise of a beautiful, delightful night, the sky a deep blue that bordered on purple, not a single cloud to be seen.

She looked at the fields around her, wondering if the stranger – Erik – would really come. Was he already there, hiding in the bushes? She couldn't see anything yet, and had surveyed the property earlier, but who knew?

The sun finally sank into the earth, the light now a shade of mauve, and she took a deep breath.

She felt it again.

The wind had quieted, like a deep mantle had covered her world, soft and dark. No more noises, no more movements, but the golden eyes in a shadow, not far from her.

He didn't move, didn't blink, just stayed there, still and hidden, his eyes fixed on her.

She breathed again, and let out her voice, softly at first, like a lullaby welcoming the arrival of the night, one of the earliest she had known, tender and nurturing. She always felt peaceful when the lyrics and the melody washed over her, wrapping her in a blanket-like softness.

_It is time for the night, time for sleeping, time for lovers and babes in their beds_

_Time for the moon shining overhead,_

_Time for the stars and the poets,_

_Sleep tight, little one, hush now,_

_I'll always be here, when the night comes, and the night goes,_

_I'll always love you, in darkness and in light, when the moon is high and the moon is low, when the stars appear and the stars go out,_

_Never fear the fading of the light,_

_It is like my love, all-encompassing, gentle and infinite._

Now the tears had come again, but they were soft and gentle, moved by beauty rather than fear and pain.

All along, she hadn't looked at him, eyes closed to really feel what she was singing, but now she couldn't help but seek him out.

Had he liked it? Had he gone? Was he planning on something dreadful?

Yet she didn't feel threatened, or frightened. Somehow, his presence didn't raise her red flags. He felt surprisingly comfortable, there, with her, but not infringing on her space. Emboldened, she started again, something a bit more cheerful, that really showed off the color of her voice, vibrant and round, with deep lows and clear highs, her enunciation precise and strong. From there, from song to song, she went on, belting at times and soft at others, a real concert that she thought she'd never do again for a real crowd after that awful last performance.

And to finish, an Aria, one of her guilty pleasures, from Faust. In French, because it was always easier to sing in her native tongue, especially opera.

Closing her eyes again, she was Marguerite, a young woman, joyful and lively, finally finding her own beauty.

"Ah ! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir."


	5. Erik IV - The Meeting

*-* Erik IV – The meeting

He'd been listening intently, careful not to move, not to put her under his spell, the way he still knew how, knowing the kind of magnetic appeal he could produce at times, even without his voice. This time, though, he wouldn't do it. Bad things had happened when he'd done that with Her, and his dreams (for he still dreamed) would never let him forget it.

It'd been easy, so easy, back then, to play with his voice, to make her like him, to use it to frighten and to entice. Even before he'd become a vampire, his voice had been his greatest asset. Now he had all the vampire powers backing his abilities. His natural talent, and the longing he'd possessed towards her, had made him irresistible. Not that she'd been completely reluctant to come, either. He may be a monster, but he wasn't that kind of monster. He'd never harmed women, for once, nor children.

And when she'd been gone, and left him, he'd stopped killing and frightening altogether. The habit had tingled his hands, like an itch he'd wanted scratched, but the thought of disappointing her had stopped him. Even in death, she'd held a power over him far too great to fight. Now he felt nothing, no compulsion to take out his anger and frustration on the world. He had learnt his lesson, almost a century too late.

She'd sung, sweetly and softly, putting her whole soul into it, and he'd been moved, just as he'd had before. Then she'd changed, and it suited her well, too, but he'd felt increasingly nervous, her voice almost too perfect at times, bringing with it unwelcomed memories.

And then she'd sung Faust.

He'd had to repress a gasp, when she'd launched into that ill-fated melody, but couldn't contain another plaintive moan as she'd finished, the echo still burning his ears.

He hadn't listened to it since Her. Had purposely avoided it, all these years. To hear it again, with such approaching perfection to Hers…

He cried out again.

And she heard it.

She'd almost forgotten he was there, listening, when that noise threw her out of her concentration, and the last note felt a bit too sharp. Heart beating almost too fast, she sought him out with her eyes, and called to him:

"Erik? Is it you?"

The moment had come. She was calling to him. He thought he'd been prepared, but his hands were shaking, his legs trembling. If he still had a heart, it would be ringing loud and strong.

He had to do it.

He still wore his masks, had never let them go, even after his favorite Parisian maker had gone away and he'd had to learn to make them himself. Endless time meant he was always looking for new pursuits, and making his own masks had allowed him to fill a void, if only for a few months. Now, with new, modern materials available, he'd been able to make some for different occasions. Not that he'd been able to test them out in real company, but it was always better to be prepared.

He'd spent part of the afternoon getting himself ready for that encounter. A nice, black silk suit, comfortable and airy to withstand the heat, his favorite hat, and his white mask, to cover his face, but let him speak and see. This one was almost handsome, if he could say so himself.

Despite his singer's lungs, he felt out of breath, shaking. He hadn't done that in so long… But no more pretending and hiding away.

He could do it.

He took a first step out of the shadows, then a second one, slowly, so as not to frighten her, and emerged into the moonlight.

She held her breath as the shape she'd seen in the bushes came forward. Just as the previous night, he was tall and lean, all in black. And… While he was handsome, there was something about his face that didn't feel quite right, a bit off. Still, in the darkness, she couldn't see more of him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle."

* * *

She froze, a long shudder down her back, goosebumps on her arms. His voice… She had never heard a voice like this. If she'd believed in the supernatural, like in some of her favorite stories, she could liken his voice to a mermaid's. Pure, delicate, low and deep all at the same time. She wanted him to say that "mademoiselle" again, shaping out the syllables one at a time, carefully, distinctly. And the sound of it. His tone was rich, almost melodic, and seducing. Calling her to him.

He advanced a bit, tilting his head towards her.

"Good evening," he repeated, just a bit louder.

She snapped back into her body, awkwardness rising, but she found her voice at last.

"Good evening, Monsieur. Are you Erik, the one who sent me that letter?"

"I am."

He bowed low, and approached her again. Now he was just under her, on the path. His eyes glowed in the semi-darkness.

"You sang beautifully tonight," he said.

Again, it was a struggle to find her voice, when his almost hypnotized her.

"Thank you."

Silence fell, as they both looked at each other. The night was quiet, an almost dream-like quality to it. All of nature had gone mute, perhaps to hear him better.

Now was not the time for tales and fantasies, she mentally scolded herself. This was real. And yet something about him… No. She was being silly, letting her imagination get the best of her.

"I… I must say I am very pleased to meet you," he began again. "You have a voice the likes of which I have not witnessed in a very, very long time."

She almost snorted, bitterly.

"Thank you, but it seems the rest of the world does not think like you."

So she _had_ been rejected. He _knew_ it. Had felt it in her voice, in her song, the previous nights.

"Fools, all of them," he commented harshly.

"I'm sorry to ask that, but… Who are you? A singer yourself? I mean… I'm very pleased to hear that you like my singing, but…"

"You are wise to question my judgement. These days, everyone fancies himself a singer and an artist. You and I both know it takes a lifetime of work, and a gift, to make a career out of this. I sing, too. I would sing for you, but you might want to get off the roof first. It… might not be safe."

What an arrogant man. When he had seemed shy earlier, now he was haughty and contemptuous.

She got up, a bitter smile on her lips.

"Thank you again for your compliments, _monsieur_, but I don't want to criticize other people in order to succeed. I think you should leave."

And his behavior changed again, all disdain evaporated from him, almost desperate now.

"Please don't… Don't ask me to leave… I…"

Losing faith in his words, he started to sing.

She sat back down abruptly, tears rising from her eyes. That voice… That song… It almost unmade her, she could taste the grief and sorrow he sang of on her tongue, feel the harshness of his contempt for the world, and yet his great desire to be part of it, recognized by it. He had faced so much pain and fear. It was all there, in his song, in the melody if not the words. She had never heard it, but it was plain to her ears and her mind.

When it seemed she had no more tears to cry, he stopped. In the blink of an eye, he was by her side, holding out a silk handkerchief. His hands were beautiful, impossibly long fingers and pale white skin, almost translucent in the dark.

"I am so very sorry I made you cry, mademoiselle…"

"Christine," she sniffed into his cloth.

He took a step away from her, as if struck by lightning. His eyes had become terrified.

"It can't be..."

"What?"

"Good night, mademoiselle. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

And just like that, the strange, sad man had disappeared.

* * *

He didn't stop running until he was back into his manor, and the darkness of his chambers. Taking his mask off, his hat off, he threw himself down on the cold ground and held his knees, shaking with the pain that had overwhelmed him.

It couldn't be… What sort of strange sorcery was that? Was she… Reborn? Was that possible? Or was she just a simple coincidence? Why tempt him like that? Were the forces of this universe so angry with him they had sent him another Angel to make him miserable? A beautiful voice to captivate him, fire and gentleness to undo him, and then taking her from him because he didn't deserve any of it. He'd done too much evil to ever be worthy of any companionship.

He knew that. Thought he'd come to accept that this was his lot in life. And death, too, or whatever this existence was, but… How could it still hurt so much, as if a hundred and thirty-two years were nothing?

Now he had to stay away, for his own good, and hers. She didn't need any strange creatures around her. She could try again whatever audition she'd missed, and then she would be out of his reach. End of story.

His body shook under the weight of his cries, but still, no tears.

And through it all, he could hear her voice in his mind, her longing speaking to his soul.

How he had felt it resonate with his own, how he could have given her music to make her happy again. They could have made beautiful music together. Just like he'd wanted to do with Her…

She had accepted his invitation! She had looked at his mask, and not left.

Now all he'd done had been making her cry and despise him. As always, he destroyed all he touched.

Why was she _Christine_?

His thoughts were hazy and mad with grief, enhanced by time and loneliness.

Who had he wanted to fool? He had better stay alone, secluded and unable to hurt anyone else. Or to be hurt further.

Fifty years ago he would have played all night long, and the next day too to shake away the reminders of what a monster he was, great enough to be sent another aching Christine to his door. Tonight he could not even move from the ground, would not even get up and sleep in his coffin. He stayed there, holding himself like a crying child, lost to his memories.


	6. Christine IV-V - Looking for Erik

_Thank you so much, everyone, who's been reading and liking it, I'm always delighted and grateful to hear what you think. Hope you enjoy what happens next, and it doesn't disappoint! Much love!_

***-* Christine IV – Looking for him**

He had gone as suddenly as he'd appeared. And right after she'd told him her name. Why?

She got off the roof, her cheeks stiff from the tears. He had such an extraordinary voice. And the way he'd sung of his feelings, putting into music what his speech would not say… She had understood him, even if only for a moment. Had felt his soul, and the torment it bore.

It was obsessing her. Even as the night came back to life, with all its noises and whispers, the wind felt cold on her arms, her heart strangely empty. She returned inside, settling into bed after her quick night routine, but found sleep evaded her. She turned and turned, rolling back the covers, as his voice kept echoing in her mind, soft and soul-deep.

What a strange man, indeed.

And now what? Would she spend her nights singing to empty vineyards and forget about that voice?

Would he ever come back?

Despite his harsh words, and his disdain, he knew what he was speaking about. How come was he there, alone at night?

Stories and myths rose to the front of her mind, whispering of monsters and mysterious figures from a long-ago past, or beloved, frightening tales. There had been such characters, in them. But this was real. He'd been a real man, who talked and moved and handed her a real handkerchief. She still had it, a proof of what had happened.

She got up from the bed, and went to her living room, where she'd put it on the table after she'd come back down. With the light on, she could see how precious it was. Soft and exquisite, its feel ancient, small letters embroidered on it.

_C. D_

Had he known a Christine before? Had he suffered because of one, and was that why he had left?

She couldn't say she didn't understand. After her father's death, she'd stopped listening to violin solos, and could still hardly bear anything with one in it, five years afterwards. And the name of her ex-boyfriend was taboo, too, now. There was no use in bringing up unwanted memories.

She missed him already, wanted to know more. But how would she find him? He hadn't left any address on his letter, had only told her his first name.

No. Unless she was lucky, and he came back the next night to hear her sing again, she wouldn't see him again.

The thought was a cold hand crushing her heart.

She spent the whole week singing every night. He didn't return.

And so she went to bed every morning with a heavy heart, his song still on a loop in her mind.

It had been so long since she'd been obsessed by anything like this, she could hardly bear it. She looked for lyrics, trying to find where he found them, but they didn't exist. It was an original composition.

He'd written them, and their melody, too.

A composer, in addition to a talented, soul-wrenching singer.

So she took the next step. She went to every market, each day a new one, and discreetly asked about a wonderful singer, wandering the fields at night. She was met with indifference, ignorance and sometimes, something strange, akin to suspicion.

_"__Why are you asking this? It's none of your business. Better stay away from the hills at night, girl."_

And she'd been dismissed.

She began to feel like there were no more trails to track, by the end of the week, but she finally got lucky.

There was an old woman, in her hundreds, who'd been living in the village her entire life, sitting at a traditional candle-making shop. She was half-blind, her skin brown with the sun, but her voice was clear and precise.

"I know of whom you speak, dear, but he doesn't like visitors. He stays to himself, and pays us handsomely to keep people away."

"You know him?"

"I have met him once. My mother used to bring him his shopping, once a week. Now my grand-daughter does that. He loves our candles."

"Would you tell me where he lives?"

"He's best left alone, child. We keep his existence a secret from the others, because he's asked us to."

"Please. I… I need to find him."

The old woman reached out, seizing Christine's hand.

"I can feel your intentions are pure. But remember my words: you may be regretting your decision."

She told her of the old manor on the top of the hills, hidden by the forest of pines and oaks and cypresses, and the small path that lead to it.

Christine thanked her profusely, and came back home. Her heart was beating hard. Now she had an address, and would go visit him tonight.

She would beg him if she had to, but she _would_ hear him sing again.

* * *

***-* Christine V - Erik's Manor**

Right before the sunset, she drove around dozens of curves, up the narrow paths leading to that old, beautiful manor lost in the middle of the forest, overlooking vineyards and fields alike.

Just like her house, it was made in the yellow, dry stones of the area, with red tiles to better blend in. All around the property, the soil was red and orange, ochre from the strange geological anomaly of this region. Until not that long ago, there had been miners to dig it and turn it into paint or dye. Now they had all gone, and the village not far from it had made it its trademark.

Here, it was especially dark: the soil was blood red, and the light from the fading sun didn't help keep that image away from her overreacting brain.

She left her car outside the gates, on a small pier overlooking the valley. There was no name, no address, only a small letterbox.

Perhaps she should have left something there?

But no. The road had been _long_ to come up here, and she wouldn't go back to her house, a full hour from there, without having seen him.

She was mad, to come up here, unannounced, when he had made it clear he didn't want to see or hear her again. Who knew what could happen here, all alone with a man she'd only met once?

She shook her head. Now was not the time to doubt herself: she hadn't done all this in vain.

She pushed open the gates. She had expected a noise, some creaking, perhaps, but they opened easily, showing they were often used and well-cared for. The paint was fresh, too, and the forest, while overgrown and wild, was well-looked after.

Here, just as when he'd been near the previous week, the hill was silent and still, the noises of the forest and fields gone. She felt like she had stepped into a faery space: out of time, ethereal and unearthly.

She made her way down the alley to the small steps of the front door, made of beautiful, old oak. Her own door was just like it, dark, with faded markings and iron forgings.

There was no ringing button, but a heavy, strange-shaped knocker, in black iron too. Taking a deep breath, she knocked three times and waited.

And waited.

She could hear no noise, no signs of movements, or even feel a presence hiding inside its walls. Yet she knew he must have been there. The certainty of it filled her very bones.

She knocked again.

"Erik? It's me. Please let me in. I want to talk to you."

The air vibrated around her, charged with warm heaviness, as the sky turned a deeper purple.

_There._

Barely there small footsteps on a tiled floor.

"Why have you come?"

She shuddered again. His voice hadn't been a dream, or her wild imagination. It was as silky as she remembered, even while tinted with quiet despair.

"I just want to talk to you."

"You have. Now _go_."

Why was he pushing her away?

"Please, Erik…," she pleaded.

He fell silent, behind the door, and she felt sure he was going to let her there, and wait for her to leave.

Until the door slowly opened.

She peeked inside, greeted with the glow of a thousand candles and candelabra, and a light perfume of… Lavender? And… Lemon?

"Come in."

She stepped into the hall while he closed the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the low light and she looked at him. As before, he was tall and thin, with black hair and… His face… She couldn't shake away the off-feeling she had with his handsome face. But she was too polite to say something, and instead remained smiling and silent.

"Follow me," he said after a minute, as he began striding towards a door at the back of the hall. "Forgive me, I wasn't expecting guests."

He led her to another candle lit room, its only window covered with heavy drapes. The fireplace was huge, and mercifully cold. Still, the air felt a bit too warm for her taste. There were bookcases on the wall, a grand piano in a corner and a harp.

He gestured for her to sit in the leather sofa, while he took the armchair by her side. His movements were elegant and efficient, almost feline in nature. Just as listening to his voice, watching his body moving was fascinating.

"So here we are, my dear mademoiselle. You wanted to talk, now we can."

"Do you play these instruments, as well as you sing?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, from the way he hesitated, but his face didn't move. There no emotions from it.

_He was wearing a mask_.

"I do."

That was why it felt off. It was beautifully and cleverly done, and up until close you wouldn't see the difference, but here, reflecting the low light, she could notice it.

"Erik, you sang beautifully, the other night. I… I wanted to hear you again, if… If you'd like to indulge me."

* * *

He didn't know what to do. He stayed away, wallowing in his misery, not even going out to feed himself, and ignoring the strange impulse to go back to hear her sing. Her name had been a sign not to return. He would ruin her life, the way he'd almost done a hundred years ago to a woman who had borne that accursed and yet most revered name.

And then she found him. Looked for him, turned up out here in his retreat. She was curious and wanting for more of his voice. He knew he shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have sung and ensnared her like that. But it hadn't been his intent! His song was powerful whether he actually tried or not.

Now what?

Would it hurt to pretend a bit more? To feel like she asked to hear him because she _wanted_ to and not because she _needed_ to?

"If you wish it, then I shall sing," he carefully replied.

* * *

She settled in the sofa, not caring how strange it was, that she'd stalked a stranger back to his home and asked for another song. Her life had been full of wonders and tales, and she didn't care what others might think should they see her. The only person whose opinion had ever truly mattered was dead. And the other one had left her. And as much as it had hurt, she couldn't resent him for his choice. He had always loved freedom, just as she did, and the sea had called for him. Had their places been reversed, she would have answered that call as well, the stirring in her soul too great to resist.

And now that voice called back to her, as he started to sing. He beckoned to her, now, whispering under her skin, inside her veins, wrapping his melody around her heart.

_Sing. Join me._


	7. Erik V - Lost in the Music Once More

_As promised, another chapter before this weekend is over :) This one was a pure delight to write, I love Erik's POV so much, so here's more of our lonely, desperate, beloved vampire! Happy reading!_

***-* Erik V - Lost in the Music Once More**

Now that she was so close to him, another temptation had arisen. He had forgotten the potency of her blood, and how the warm pulse at her throat beat for him, even when she was silent.

As he sang, he tried to focus on something else, but his throat was becoming painful. Thirst was growing inside him, the need more unbearable every passing second.

He kept his eyes open and fixed on the candles, focused on their delicate, enticing dance, trying to forget her presence altogether.

But he couldn't ignore her, and every so often his eyes trailed back to her. She was now lounging in his sofa, her face pleasantly relaxed, eyes half closed. Her skin was radiant in the soft candle light, a different shade than what he'd seen the last time in the moonlight.

She was as lovely as one could ever be.

And how her warm blood was calling him, her scent the promise of hot days wandering the fields, lost in the vines, splashing in the lazy rivers and springs.

He'd never been so sad not to be able to feel the sun on his skin, when she offered him such a potent reminder.

His song changed, grew from powerful and joyful, to tender and quiet. And so did her scent. Extraordinarily, he'd forgotten how a human's scent could reflect their emotions. He'd never stayed long enough near one to witness such a fact since _her_.

Now she smelled of the night. Of the wind, coolness and moonlight on her hair. And if possible, it was even more appealing than before, and he had to stop his song, to breathe her in…

Beneath the mask, his nostrils would have flared, if he had ones. Oh, the temptation, delight and curse and flame all together. Would he resist charming her to get a small, careful taste of her blood? She wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't remember it, and she could be on her way home in the following hour…

No.

Vampire he may be, but he had manners. He had invited her into his home, and she would be safe as long as she remained inside. He always drank outside, hating to leave the smell of blood lingering in his hallways. It slowed and stopped his composing.

But now, with that scent… He felt whole duets and arias rise in him once again, glorious, beautiful melodies and the whisper of lyrics to accompany them.

If only she could stay, so that he may indulge in his passion, in ways he had lost since his only love left?

That thought sobered him, and drove all temptation away from his mind. He'd never drunk from his Christine's blood, despite how potent it had felt to him then. At the time, her very scent had sent him into a frenzy of words and melodies.

It was with her perfume in his heart that he'd composed his Don Juan Triumphant. And what a mockery of love it had been… Tonight, a hundred years later, if he allowed himself to drink from her… Who knew what he would do?

He wouldn't risk it.

She had to leave, now that she was satisfied, and never return. He would forget her song, the temptation of her blood, her scent, and return to his silence.

Her eyes were closed. She was breathing evenly, deep and slow.

_She'd fallen asleep._

Panic flared inside him as he rose to his feet. That hadn't been part of the plan! He paced around her, trying to come up with a solution that didn't involve actually touching her, but…

He approached her. Kneeled by her side.

How serene was her face, in sleep! How prettily she smiled, even unconscious!

He sighed.

Ever since his Christine died, he'd banished all thoughts of loveliness from his gaze. There was no more beauty, no more good in this world, when she'd left it. Only darkness, silence and pain. But here, right in the heart of his home, lay the loveliest of creatures.

He could almost feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, how beautifully golden it was in candlelight.

He could see her rosy cheeks, her pink lips. And always, her delicate throat, how his fangs were appearing now, aching for just a taste, just the smallest bite from the curve of her neck.

Another pure, gentle Angel had come to his home. And once again, he'd fallen helplessly under her spell.

He went to retrieve his cloak, and as carefully as he could, arranged her legs on the sofa and covered her sleeping form. A small curl had fallen over her eyes, and he couldn't help his hand from delicately tucking it to the side.

There.

Just by her song, and coming to chase him onto his doorstep, she'd bewitched him.

He sighed again.

_Very well,_ he thought. Starved from touch and love and beauty, he would accept the very first hint of it. Tomorrow, he'd see what the future held for him, and for her, but that night belonged to him, as he whispered a lullaby in her ear.

_This night belongs to us, my love. _

_Sleep, and let your sorrow behind._

_I will watch over you, shield you from harm,_

_And let the moon soothe your aching heart._

* * *

He let her sleep and returned to his chambers. He remembered what had happened the last time he'd had a woman sleeping in his house. But this time, she had actively sought him out. Had wanted to hear him.

What about the next morning? He should have new clothes for her, and breakfast, too… He should eat, as well, just in case he felt his resolve leaving him.

In a few seconds, he'd sent an email to the old lady who did his shopping, asking her to bring what Christine would need the following morning, and then he'd donned another cloak and was out, floating down the hills.

His meal was quick and not nearly as appetizing as her blood felt, but it was good food, still, and half an hour later he was back in his room.

Clear-headed, for once, thirst appeased, and with a new sense of purpose.

She had reached out to him. The knowledge would delight him if he weren't so scared he'd only bewitched her.

What would he do now?

She _had _reached out to him. He'd done it right, though, hadn't he? She hadn't gone yet. Had trusted him enough to fall asleep right in a stranger's house. Or had his powers flared too strong and filled her with a misplaced sense of safety? He could never be sure, and the fear of her reaction the next morning returned to claw at his heart.

Melodies were coming back.

He'd almost forgotten how it felt, to be filled with the music once more, to feel the notes dance in his brain and beg him to write them, to play them, how the first lines grew and the background appeared to join them, in a harmony he thought he'd never hear again.

His favorite piano was in his living room, where she was sleeping, and therefore unreachable. So was his harp, which had always allowed him to relax, the sound clear and sweet and soft.

That only let him with his preferred violin, in a case next to his bed.

In that old house, the walls were well-built and sound-proof. He'd never needed that before, but that was just how he operated. Things had to be well-done. Things and buildings were never afraid of him. Never rejected him.

They didn't leave, nor die.

Until today, his walls had never been used to the extent of their designs, but now he could see that he'd done well. When he closed the door to protect his new protégé's sleep from his instruments, the whole house turned silent. Even his good hearing could barely hear her slow breathing.

Pleased with the soundproofing, he gathered a few sheets of composing paper and his favorite, oldest red pen, settled at his desk and began writing.

If he had tears, he would have wept.

It felt like greeting an old friend. Or so it would have, if he'd known what that was like. The end of a long darkness, of his long silence.

Notes and words were coming back, and his hand could hardly keep up with their onslaught. They sprang and jumped and greeted him with their vibrancy, their delight and their love.

Almost like a lover's caress.

_We've missed you_, the music seemed to whisper.

Time had no more hold over him, but there and then, it was even more obvious. He was living again. Not merely existing, out of place and time, for beauty had claimed him back. And that was all thanks to her, his new, dearest Angel.

If for nothing else, he would be forever grateful to her.

And now his mission appeared clear and bright once again.

Whatever had been her dream and ambition, he would help her to achieve it.

He would ask for nothing else in return, would never even share the new, secret wish of his heart. His old Christine's kiss had felt like redemption. He would prove to her, now, even in death, that she had been right to forgive him. He would be worthy of that.


	8. Christine VI - A new dawn

*-* Erik VI - A new Dawn

Morning came, and a stronger scent reached him. A pulse, and fast heartbeat.

Lost in his music, and the ecstasy of composing again, it almost did not break through to him. But several lifetimes of being keenly aware of his surroundings had made him notice the slightest change in his environment. Such as his lovely guest's quickened breathing.

She was waking up.

Panic rushed through him. He hadn't bathed! Nor changed! He was still in yesterday's clothes!

And had barely time to do it all before she came to her senses…

Abandoning his pen and carefully laying the violin down, he hurried to the bathroom, bathed and put some other clothes, and readjusted the mask. He hadn't taken it off, all night long, not even fearing what might happen if she woke up and found him without. It was such a habit now, to keep it on and changing only when his face was becoming sore or to clean it, that he hadn't given it a thought.

She had barely stirred when he gently opened the door and greeted his guest.

* * *

*-* Christine VI

She woke up, in a cocoon of warmth and a foreign scent in her nose. Fire, ashes and herbs… Something reminded her of home: lavender and citrus. She kept her eyes closed, clutching her blanket tighter.

It was not a blanket.

It was too light and the material seemed too precious, like flowing silk to be a blanket.

She opened her eyes and sat up, heart beating fast.

Erik!

She'd fallen asleep, right in the middle of his song. How terribly rude of her! There was no light, the windows heavily covered.

"You're awake," he casually remarked as he strode into the room, beginning to light all the candles around them. "Good morning, my dear."

"Yes…. I'm sorry I fell asleep. You should have woken me up."

"And risk you driving off the cliff returning home and killing yourself? I do not think so."

She sat up. She was hungry, now, but well-rested, the nagging curiosity and longing to find him and listen to his voice finally soothed.

"Still, you should have." She gestured to the windows. "Why don't you open the curtains? It's still cool outside, the heat will not enter."

"I happen to be very light-sensitive, my dear, and would rather not open these. Besides, are candles not a lovely sight? And their smell? Exquisite, is it not?"

He finished lighting what was perhaps the hundredth candelabra in the room, and carefully, slowly approached her.

His mask was on again, its beautiful details revealed by the soft light, hiding his expression, but not the curve of his mouth. How it fascinated her, the way his lips moved, the strong and yet gentle way he pronounced every word. So in control of each breath. Her own was not so lacking, but she felt terribly inexperienced when his was absolute perfection.

"Thank you for singing for me," she said softly.

"It was my pleasure."

Silence came again.

"I should probably go," she said. "I mean, thank you for letting me in, and sleep here, I hope I wasn't too much of a bother…"

"You're not," he quickly assured her. "You can stay, if you want. I… I have some clothes, and…"

"You must be busy, I wouldn't want to disturb you."

She wanted to leave.

She didn't want to disturb _him_.

"Christine," he said gently. "It was my pleasure to have you as a guest here."

The way he said her name… Nobody had ever said it like that. Gentle and careful, and… Would she admit it? With utmost care and delicacy. Like she was the most precious thing in his eyes.

She shivered, and couldn't hear the rest of his sentence.

"Say my name again," she asked, looking at him in the eyes. He was still away from her, keeping a respectful distance, but the way his eyes shone, golden and intense… She felt like she was but a feet away from him.

And she could feel something, too, in the air around them. Both light and heavy with intention. Purpose.

He was silent for a while, his mask hiding his expression, but his mouth gently curled into the whisper of a smile.

"Christine," he repeated, to her delight.

He had loved the name, she was absolutely sure of it. There was no denying it. Vibrant and musical this time.

How she loved his voice… She could drown in it, and she was relutant to part from him and his wonderful instrument.

"Will you stay for breakfast?"

His question was more than it seemed, like it meant a lot more. Part apology, part aknowledgement of what had happened.

"I would love to."

She rose from the sofa, and he led her to another room.

"I have left some clothes for you, if you desire to change. You can take your time. I'll be waiting for you when you're ready."

She would never get over his voice. Even the most mundane sentence became a delightful, bright and wondrous invitation.

With him, she could hardly find her own, when she was usually so proud of it. She had worked on it for nearly her entire life, all 23 years of it, but faced with his… She still had a long way to go.

Perhaps… Perhaps he could teach her? Show her how to wield her voice the way he did his?

She nodded, noticing he was still holding the door for her.

"Thank you."

She stepped inside, and heard his light but purposeful steps ring across the tiled floor. The room was beautiful. Ancient but well-mantained, the way she loved. A big tub of cast iron covered by white porcelain, with adorned bronze feet and a bronze faucet, shining as if it had been set up yesterday. He hadn't bothered with candles, this time, electric appliances giving out a soft, dimmed white light. No windows, but she could hear very faintly a whirr from the ventilation system, keeping the air sane.

Above another porcelain sink stood a little shelf with his expensive perfume, toothbrush and hairbrush. No mirror. A skin cream too.

It felt bizarrely intimate, to stand in a stranger's bathroom filled with his belongings. His face, hidden by a mask, must have been a source of great discomfort for him, if the lack of mirror and the cream were any indication. She did not know what to feel. Curiosity, most of all. How terrible was it, if he did not wish to see it for himself, doing his care blindly?

The mystery only ever grew.

On a rail were freshly-laundered clothes, the scent of lavender and citrus delicate in the air. They were her size, too, and she didn't know whether to feel grateful or angry at the way he'd correctly assessed her body.

She quickly showered, amazed at how perfect this water felt against her skin. It was a bit sensitive, as he'd said his was, and she loved its smooth caress, fresh as mineral water. Whatever treatment he'd used to purify his house supply was a wonder of design. Like moonlight made liquid.

The more she thought about him, the more she was drawn in. He lived alone and secluded, despite a beautiful voice that would put the entire opera world to shame. He wore a mask, and had carefully assembled a house where he could take proper care of it.

He was perfectly nice and gentlemanly, with her.

And yet he bore undescriptible pain and sorrow in his soul.

What was his story? What had happened to him? She wanted to know more than anything at the moment. She loved stories, had collected them like precious stones kept on a beautiful velvet pillow, and deep down she knew his could be her most compelling yet.

So many pieces, and in her mind she wanted to begin to assemble them all.

She stepped out of the tube and quickly dried herself. The towels he'd let out for her were of softest cotton, and felt heavenly against her skin. She was almost reluctant to change into the simple T-shirt and pants he'd also prepared for her.

She'd never worn clothes like that, so beautifully made, from such high-quality linen, and yet they were very simple. To freely give his guests such exquisite gifts, he must have been very rich, too.

She opened the door and followed the smell of freshly-baked bread and viennoiseries, into a kitchen as dark as his living room had been. Old wooden furniture and more candles. It would have been very nice for a candlelit dinner, but was a bit eerie for breakfast. Especially since the air outside would have been cool enough to eat on a terrasse. It wasn't like he didn't have the space, for his property was a lot bigger than hers, or lacked privacy, for his closest neighboors were a good five kilometers away.

He was sitting very straight and proper on a stool at the counter, and got up to help her sit down. She'd only seen that in movies before…

"What would you like?"

"Bread and whatever jam you have will be fine, please."

He turned towards the oven, a monstrous, huge thing on the wall, alimented by an aperture beneath it and big enough to cook four pizzas at the same time. At the moment croissants and pains au chocolat were being baked, as well as warm bread.

He took the bread out, protecting his perfect hands with heat gloves, and held it on a plate in front of her. From a cupboard he showed her the different kinds of jams he had, including her favorite.

"Nutella?"

Yes.

The smell was unbelievable. _How_ did he have all these things for breakfast when he was so thin? She could see it, too, how his beautiful suit was perfectly tailored, but didn't fully hide how skinny he was. When he'd held out her chair for her, she'd noticed how he towered over her, too.

"A viennoiserie, perhaps? And to drink? Juice? Milk? Coffee? Tea?"

"Water, please. It's better for my voice."

These things he did for her, the way he'd done so long ago, how quickly they came back. This domesticity had been all he'd ever wanted, long ago. Now he had a chance to do it again, properly, for someone who actually _wanted_ him around, and he'd be truly dead and buried before he let it go.

She might be only here for his voice, but she was here, nonetheless, of her own free will, and he'd happily pretend his vampire powers had nothing to do with it.

And her last comment… He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Long ago, his Christine would prettily pout when he'd gently told her dairy products would not serve her voice well. She'd loved milk.

Here, he didn't have to tell her. But at the same time, it broke his heart.

How similar they were, and yet, how different. He alone, in this mess, had not aged or disappeared or changed, too much. His core, his heart, was the same empty vessel, aching for more. Aching, longing for anything, really. Beauty, love, art.

Connection, too.

She looked into his eyes, and did not flee. Did she see the mask, too? Or had he managed to fool her? He didn't know. She smiled, too. How he was loving her smile.

He gave her what she asked for, and settled his long limbs into a chair, by her side, content to watch her eat.

Something so simple, and yet it would nearly bring tears to his eyes. But he couldn't.

Her scent, now, was fresh and airy, with earthy undertones. The way the woods would smell after a summer rain. Despite having drunk his fill the previous night, he could already feel his fangs sharpen a bit, and the thirst flare in his throat. Manageable, of course, but… An unwanted guest, this morning.

"You're not eating?" she asked as she ate.

"I've already eaten. I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, I was rather hungry."

It was true, all of it, and she bought it.

"It's alright, you're very kind in letting me eat your food, I wouldn't let you starve in your own home."

The tone in her voice was gently teasing, and her smile showed it was alright. She truly didn't mind.

"I hope everything is to your liking," he added.

"Everything is perfect, thank you very much. "

How much he cared, it thrilled her.

She finished her meal, and looked back to him. All along, he'd taken special care not to stare at her eating, but now she could feel his gaze back on her every movement. She had never been looked at like that. Even… Even _him_, back when they were dating… She couldn't remember such a profound intensity in his eyes.

Except when she was performing, and playing at being someone else, she'd never really liked being looked at. It always brought her anxiety, and she'd try to avoid those situations at all costs.

But even as a stranger, his gaze wasn't disturbing. Or scary. Or made her want to curl into a ball and disappear.

His eyes…

They were warm, accepting.

And who did she want to fool? After last night, and the week she'd spent looking for him, he didn't feel like a stranger so much. She had no idea where this came from, if it even was possible to feel this at ease with someone she'd just met, but… There was this connection, between them, as real and tangible as a golden wire, linking them, their love for music, for singing. Their appreciation of each other's talent, perhaps?

Even with her fellow singers and musicians, even with her father, the one who'd taught her everything she'd known about the arts, there had never been this easiness.

It was surprisingly comfortable, being here with him, sat at his breakfast table, with his candles and his impeccable suit and his amazing, beautiful hands. And even his strange masked face.

And though he was silent, now, content to spend undisturbed, quiet time with her, she could never forget his amazing, powerful voice.

"Would you teach me how to sing like you do?" she blurted out. "I would pay you, of course, but… With your guidance, I might be able to impress the judges on my next audition, next spring?"

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next one is about singing lessons, be sure to be there! Thanks for reading everyone!_


	9. Erik VI - Singing Lessons

_To make up for the lack of chapter last week, have two chapters today :) Hope you like it! Happy reading! Things get interesting now..._

* * *

***-* Erik VI - Singing Lessons**

He'd been lost in his thoughts, admiring her, just feeling what precious little time he had with this new, beautiful Angel, appreciating how she looked at him, no fear in her eyes, and not even that hypnotized look he'd come to expect from the humans he sometimes met. It almost reminded him of the way his Christine had looked at him, so long ago, at the beginning, when he'd first appeared to her. Before he'd ruined everything.

He was reluctant to break the spell with his voice, if there was truly no spell on her.

That was why he'd almost missed what she'd said. She wanted him to teach her.

Voice lessons.

He'd wanted to hope for them, but now that she asked, he felt his old fears come running back. What if he ruined it all over again?

But she wanted him to.

And he felt powerless to resist her wishes.

Her wish was his command.

That much had never changed.

"You don't need to pay me," he replied, all smooth silk. "I would gladly help you. Hearing you improve will be my only reward. Not that you need much, truly," he added after a time.

She stood, abruptly and went to hug him.

"Thank you so much!" He stiffened under her touch, and she retreated.

"Hum. Sorry. I… I… It was too much, right?"

"Right."

He was stunned. His voice had failed him. That had never happened before.

His mind was blank.

She had touched him. He'd always taken care not to touch her. She might be able to look at him and live, but touching him was another curse altogether.

He'd briefly felt her warmth through their clothes, her beating heart thunderous in his ears, her excitement an irresistible perfume.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, couldn't see. There was only the power of her delight like both blood and venom in his mouth, and it was unmaking him.

He was still standing, when she didn't say anything after that. Curious, how he hadn't fallen. He'd felt his legs trembling, though, and more feeling would have shattered him, in pieces over the beautiful tiled floor.

"Erik? Are you alright?"

He found his voice, regained mastery over his body, and put her scent and pleasure at the back of his mind. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Yes. I'll be delighted to teach you. When should we start? Do you have anything scheduled today?"

"Well. Actually, no. Could we… Could we start now?"

"Of course."

* * *

She was angry at herself. What a way to thank someone, nearly assaulting him! She was lucky he was well and hadn't sent her home right away. But no. He was still there, the slight shaking of his body gone.

And now he was leading her back to his living room, to the grand piano and the harp. She would hear him again! She couldn't wait to hear his beautiful, wonderful, magnificent voice in her ears again.

There was no more trace of his reaction to her hug as he moved through the house and settled at the piano. There. He sat down, his hands on the keys so elegant, so sweet and careful. Polished and yet reflecting nothing but the gentle candle light. A beautiful instrument, very much like the one he had in his throat. He was caressing the keys, letting forth an exquisite sound, arpeggios and melodies woven together in a waterfall of sounds.

She stopped moving, listening to his playing. Joy, freedom, pleasure, he was saying all of these in his music. Gone was the sorrow, the pleading for acceptance. This was rejoicing and rebirth, brought alive by the vivacious hands.

He turned to her, then, satisfied with the tuning of his piano.

"Shall we warm you up first, my dear?"

_My dear_.

How could he put all these feelings, evoke so many delicacies with a single word?

She nodded, her voice gone. She would need it, though. As he went up a scale, she followed, a bit throaty at first, and then forgetting where she was and who he was, with her goal and his words and advice the only things on her mind.

She was a singer, and she sang her heart out to him.

When she started, he almost stopped playing. Only a century of practice kept his hands on the keys, while he was devouring her with his eyes. He'd almost forgotten how beautifully she sounded. How had she _ever_ gotten rejected?

It seemed impossible. Her scales were beautiful, pitch perfect, showing great ease and flexibility. When they started an aria, she was in control of her voice, and perfectly in character, lovely and playful as needed.

He was listening with great care, trying to see where she needed to improve, but her support was excellent, her breathing well-placed, her pronunciation precise.

What could there be missing from her voice? She was as good as his old Christine had been…

And then he heard it.

There was something lacking from her, that he wouldn't have noticed before.

There was not enough intention in her voice. Her acting needed improving. She was amazing, of course, but she could use a little more life in her emotions. And what a strange thing for him to teach would it be…

He might be a great singer, but he had too little control over his emotions to be acting adequately. His anger would be too great, his fear too frightening, his joy too intense. His pain and sorrow, soul-wrenching.

When she sang about the young beautiful Marguerite and her joy, it didn't feel real enough.

How would he ever teach her that?

After another aria, he stopped playing, and she looked down at him.

"You've been very silent," she commented. "Are there too many things to correct that you've been ignoring them?"

"Not at all. Your singing is excellent, and your technique is perfect. You have been well-taught, and there is very little I can teach you."

"But… That's impossible. You… I mean…"

"There is, however, an area where you could use more practice."

Would he dare?

He could feel her eyes on him, pleading and beautiful. Trusting.

"You feel things too deeply, but do not project them to your audience. You keep them for yourself. To touch your jury, you will need to expose yourself and make them see the real you."

She had been keeping a shell around herself, protecting herself from further pain and misery, but that had translated into her singing, and while she could human emotions, they didn't feel real anymore, because she didn't let herself feel them anymore.

She was still looking at him, nodding carefully, her eyes hiding what she was thinking.

"Picture the greatest joy in the world," he said as he began the accompaniement of another aria, Je veux vivre, from Gounod's Roméo et Juliette, on the piano. "Longing to live, and to love freely. Let it fill you completely."

She nodded again, closing her eyes. Her eyelids were fluttering, her chest rising as she took a long, deep breath.

"Now. Start again," he almost whispered, "but keep that passion into you. You want to live. You refuse that cage they've prepared for you. Can you feel that? This love, starting into you? Do you feel your heart beating so fast it's almost bursting out of your chest?"

He repeated the opening chords, letting his voice fill her ears, unwilling to turn seductive but unable to stop himself from sounding almost erotic.

She opened her eyes, and started the aria, a series of notes powerful and graceful, and added the words.

She was better, already, but not completely there yet.

He let her finish it, and returned to the beginning, as he whispered other words of advice in her ears.

"Picture that freedom, as you're coming of age, how your life is just beginning, how thrilling it feels."

"Don't you see it? All these doors, wide open, as they welcome you to your future? The successes in store? The great, epic love you will know, almost there for the taking?"

"Can you smell it? The scent and the taste of desire, the flowers and the champagne as you become the star you always dreamt you could be?"

He couldn't bear it. He left the piano, as she started singing again, and again, the aria a glorious melody in her throat, and came closer, closer, inching her chin higher, as her eyes fixed on his.

Her feelings were strong, now, her joy and thrill so powerful his skin was tingling.

He knew he should stop her, should stop this before something terrible happened, but…

« Douce flamme, reste dans mon âme, comme un doux trésor longtemps encore. »

_"__Gentle flame, remain in my soul, like a sweet treasure for a long time_"

She was becoming irresistible again.

* * *

Better, much better.

She was singing, his voice bringing forth pictures and feelings she'd left buried in herself. Joy, irresistible joy and longing, how long had it been since she'd felt that? So unabashedly happy? Embracing the future and looking forward with bright eyes? She'd been living in the past, one day at a time, looking back at every turn. Now he was urging her to raise her eyes, raise her head and feel the new dawn, the hope and thrills of the future, how truly _young _she was, but hadn't felt in so very long. An old soul, she'd been.

His voice was waking her up, now. Evoking things she'd almost forgotten. Now her breathing was deeper, her heart beating with fierce intent. She was feeling alive, finding new meaning within the song.

Je veux vivre, she sang proudly, loudly, without shame or fear, letting the words imprint on her soul. And she sang the cadenza that followed, feeling as if he were pulling the joy from within her, pulling, pulling, until she was drowning in it, floating in it, and her arms were shaking, goose bumps on her skin, tears rising to her eyes as she looked in his, golden and bright and so intense, so deep…

When she was finished, she couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Her voice was gone, her heart was full and almost bursting, and she wanted him to speak again, to tell her she'd done well.

What had happened?

Now the high was receding, and reality was coming back fast. He was quiet, a feet from her, observing her. She should feel uncomfortable, but couldn't.

"Christine," he whispered. "Christine," he repeated, so reverently it broke her heart. "That was exquisite."

He was so very close, now, and there was eletricity in the air again. Heavy, purposeful current, linking them.

It was so very obvious, how attracted she was feeling, ridiculous, how much she wanted him right now. Most of all, his voice…

"Sing again," she pleaded. "Please."

And he did, and she was drowning in sound again, envelopped in warmth and art and beauty, crying at how beautiful it was.

"Sing with me, now," he asked her, feeling her pulling at him, unable to resist the appeal of her scent, her blood, her song.

And she joined his song.

There had never been such joy in performing before. Singing for him had been great, but this was another level. They were meant to be singing together, she just knew it.

They had clicked.

Their voices rose and fell together, and she had no words for it. Time had no meaning, when there was so much between them.

It felt as if every path had led her to this, this joining of voices and hearts.

She didn't believe in souls or magic or anything, but this was the closest thing there was.

And it was real.

She was vibrant and a queen next to him. All thoughts of rejection gone from her mind, only pleasure to unite her voice with his. He was skilled, too, responding to her every change in tone, his eyes fixed on hers.

From duet to aria to other duets, they explored her whole repertoire, all a cappella, not caring for accompaniement when together was more than enough.

She could have gone on and on, but he drew his voice to a close, with a long, beautiful, gentle note, his fingers coming to rest on her throat, his eyes so very intense, behind the mask.

"You should rest, now," he whispered, his breath tingling her chin that she had raised to look up to him. He was so tall, so close.

She couldn't resist the temptation.

She brought her hands to his face, too fast for him to react, and kissed him.


	10. Christine VII - After the Kiss

_As usual, thank you for reading, reviewing, liking it, I'm so grateful for all of you. _

* * *

*-* Christine – VII - The Aftermath of the kiss

His hand had felt a bit cold, but she thought it was because her skin had been so warm from her high emotions. His lips were cold, too. But she couldn't dwell on that, because he caught her hands in his in a swift move and jumped back. He then let go as if she'd burnt him.

His eyes were glowing, like the points of light she'd seen from her roof.

The distance had come back.

"Why did you do that?" he almost hissed, like ice in her veins.

A bucket of cold water to her head.

"I…"

What could she say? Of course it was stupid, but… She'd been drunk on their singing, high from the ecstasy of their music, and she'd wanted to feel him, closer, skin against skin.

"I thought you wanted it too…" she whispered. "I'm sorry."

That rejection hurt. She didn't want to admit how much she'd wanted him, it was almost too silly now. But gods, why had she expected anything different? Why would he want her?

"I'm sorry," she said again, tears rising to her eyes. She still had his handkerchief in her pocket, that beautiful piece of silk that she'd brought with her on her expedition to find him, and she took it out, caressing her cheek with it, drying her eye.

* * *

What had she been thinking? Why had she kissed _him_? He'd been so surprised, so high from their singing together… He wanted to disappear and never look in her eyes again, for how stupid and ashamed and terrible he felt.

He had _liked_ it, but his throat had risen to his mouth, fangs growing too fast, her blood so near…

And her hands had been_ so_ close to his mask, and a century of habit to protect it had pushed him to react and stop her before another great catastrophe.

Now she was crying again, her pulse beating hard against her skin, her scent a mixture of fear and shame, like acid in his non-existent nose.

He'd done it again. Made her cry.

He would never learn, now, would he? With everything he did, he found a way to bring tears on her lovely cheeks.

He had liked the kiss. The way her hands had reached for his mask, he'd panicked, too, but she had kissed his lips, her warmth so close to him… It was a repeat of her hug, but even better. More purposeful. And yet he hated it, because he knew where it had come from.

She was attracted to his voice and to his appeal as a vampire. Never to him, as a person.

But she could never know the truth.

And yet, what could he do?

She still had the handkerchief he'd given her in her hand, using it to dry the tears he'd brought down her bright eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I shouldn't have said that. You did nothing wrong, just… Surprised me. I'm not used to physical contact."

She said nothing, just sniffling softly, frozen in the middle of the room, next to his piano.

Words were failing him, as usual. When would he ever learn to use them as a normal being?

He sighed, and slowly walked to his harp, in the corner, not approaching her. He sat down, closed his eyes, and started playing something he'd created. A sweet, lovely lullaby he'd made for his old Christine, in the time where his hopes had been high, when he'd believed ardently she might fall in love with him, the way he'd loved her.

Perhaps, this new Christine could find it in her heart to forgive him his rudeness?

And along the way, he'd find how to be good enough for her?

* * *

She didn't move. Heard his words as if through a veil, echoing in her head but not really coming through to her brain.

Watched him go and sit at his harp, and his beautiful, elegant hands pluck at the cords. Suddenly the notes made sense, his words came to her, as clear as if he'd been whispering them to her ear and straight to her heart.

"I'm sorry," he was repeating over and over again.

She could understand the way he'd reacted, the fear and pain and attraction he'd felt for her, and how it had all overwhelmed him.

She understood it all.

And again, the music had her pinned to her place. She could only watch him, study the way he drew sound from the cords, the movements he made, so gentle and agile, how he'd closed his bright eyes and focused on the notes and what he wanted to tell her.

Music was his mother tongue, it seemed, words too unwieldy and difficult, a foreign concept to his brain.

Part of her understood him so well. And yet the other was a mystery to her.

He stopped, and looked back to her. There was such an apology in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the hunching of his shoulders. Gone was the smooth talker he'd been as a teacher, the feline movements of his purposeful stride. Now, in front of her stood a child, unloved and fearful. Waiting for a strike and harsh words.

It broke her heart, even more than his music had done, when they'd first met. Even more than his raging at her, earlier.

"Will you forgive my outburst?" he whispered. "I understand if you wish to leave."

He was still looking at her, while she remained silent.

She didn't want to leave. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him tight, and hear him again. _And kiss him again._

"You've been doing much better, by the way," he said, as an afterthought. "Your acting is tremendous, and you were the best Juliette I have ever heard. You won't need me anymore."

"I don't want to leave."

She had made up her mind, when his words had suggested she would leave, and he would stop teaching her. How could she go back to her silence when he was _there_?

Even if nothing ever happened between them, and she felt unsure now why the attraction had been so irresistible, she didn't want to be parted from him.

"Please tell me you'll teach me again."

"Of course I'll teach you, if you want me to."

What time was it? She couldn't know, from how dark the room was, the windows still obscured. But the candles had burnt low, and would soon go out.

It felt like a lifetime ago she'd been in his kitchen, eating with no troubles on her mind.

Things were different now.

She had to take things back into her control, the way she'd done when she'd arrived here.

"I will leave," she finally said. "But we can meet tomorrow, if you'd like. For another singing lesson."

_And more_, _perhaps_, her eyes were telling him.

He nodded, eyes bright.

"As you wish, my dear Christine."

How did he do that? Unmade her with a single utterance of her name? Her heart fluttered, and she almost raised a hand to her chest to still it.

"Thank you for the lesson, Erik. I am beyond grateful for your advice."

There were more things she'd left unsaid, but she hoped he could see them in her smile.

_I am so glad we met. I'm so sorry for pushing you.  
_

He nodded again, and led her to his porch. She was right. It must have been mid-afternoon, by now, the light of the sun golden, pink and red on the pine trees, the ground once more like blood under her feet. He was keeping to the door, not stepping out to accompany her. How _odd_.

She held out his handkerchief.

"I needed to give this back to you, too. It… It must be important to you."

His hand was trembling as he took it slowly. He'd stopped breathing entirely, as if bracing for something. Was it sorrow? Anger? Pain? She couldn't be sure.

"It is. But you needed it more than I do."

They remained there, locked in each other's eyes, feeling the unsaid things weighing on them. But there was no time for that today. Tomorrow, she would start digging. Building trust, getting to know him, for real. After all, the things she thought she knew about him were only small impressions she'd gotten from him.

"Good bye, Erik."

"Good bye, Christine. Have a safe journey home."

How final it felt, _but_ _it wasn't_.

She'd make sure it wasn't.


	11. Erik VII - After the Kiss

_Happy reading everyone!_

* * *

***-* Erik VII – After the kiss**

He watched her go to her car, open the door, and with a final look back to him, and a small wave of her hand, she drove away.

The woods around his property turned silent, the sky heavier, the sun deadlier.

He came back inside, shivering from how terribly burnt he was. But it had been worthwhile, to see her off. And he'd seen a lot worse, in earlier days. This was almost nothing.

Things hadn't changed, though. Despite how much he'd wanted to believe he was something else, he was only ever a vampire. Undead, and unable to walk under the sun. This seemed like a constant curse, no matter what form he took. The light hated and hurt him.

She would come back tomorrow, she had said. But would she? Or would she just come back to hear the precious voice of the monster who'd hypnotized her?

He should stop caring. At this point, he'd take anything from her. Or so he believed. He hadn't let her kiss him, though. That was a torture he'd never inflict on anyone.

He made his way over to the bathroom, where he took the mask and the rest of his clothes off, and started applying his scented cream on the worst of the burns. His hands had badly liked even the smallest reflections of the light. They would hurt for a while, even if he treated them well.

His face hadn't suffered too much, though. It was a small mercy, but after all, what could happen to it to make it worse? After so long, he still hadn't gotten used to his reflection, and mirrors had been banned from his house, the only flaw in his otherwise beautiful, well-designed home.

But was it truly a flaw, when that sight had been the source of so many torments, most of them self-inflicted? He knew that now. His Christine had showed him that. Every hurt he'd taken out on the world had been a mistake, one he wouldn't be making anymore.

Silence kept ringing around him, thirst growing once more inside of him. Would he ever be able to master it, the way he did everything else? It felt like a lost battle.

He sighed.

Self-pity had gotten him nowhere.

He put the mask back on, feeling the light finally leave the earth, and set out again, outside, looking for his next meal. If he was to spend another day with her tomorrow, he would need all the sustenance he could get. She wouldn't try and kiss him again, he hoped. Once had been hard enough not to lash out or succumb to his urges. But twice? He couldn't be sure of the results.

He came back, and strode to the bathroom. The scent of her blood still filled his nose, despite having drunk more than his fill of a stranger's. His pure, clean water would perhaps help driving away her ghost.

They were both there, in front of his eyes, his old Christine, in the beautiful dress she'd worn when she'd left him, her blue eyes filled with quiet pity and understanding. Her blond curls free on her shoulders. He'd never looked for her, afterwards. Never saw how she grew old, how her hair thinned, how her voice had sounded, in her last days. Could she still sing, even frail and grey? Were there wrinkles on her cheeks, on her brow, from how much joy and life she'd had?

His heart was breaking all over again, her voice softly whispering in his ears. What would she think of him, now, trying to seduce another young woman, deceiving her as he'd done before?

He could almost feel her hand on his brow, where she'd kissed him, for the first time in his life, no more the only time. His young, new Christine had kissed him, too. On his lips, what little skin he had there, too thin and pale. Why had she done that? How had she felt so attracted to him? The question obsessed him.

Perhaps that was another lesson: never underestimate the appeal of vampires, and how much power it had on impressionable young women.

Her eyes grew fierce and severe. She had never liked when he succumbed to generalizations.

"_Don't ever say that again_." Her voice rang in his ears, as soft as a breeze, but with the strength of a raging fire. "_Don't underestimate yourself, or her. There is more to you than a drinking undead man._"

None of it made sense. Had he fallen so far down he was having hallucinations now? Were they possible, as his headaches had been, for his kind?

Stepping inside the tub, he sat down, arms around his frail body. The water fell down on his head, wetting what little hair he had, tracing tears on cheeks that hadn't seen their salty traces in more than a century. He was always cold, and the hottest water could never warm enough and drive out the chill from his bones. He was always careful not to burrow his face into his knees and against his arms, to avoid tearing the delicate skin.

Long ago, from hate and despair and rage, he'd torn his face apart, and it'd hurt nearly as much as his own interior heartbreak. However, that wasn't an experience he wished to duplicate.

How long did he stay there, under the soft, soothing sound of the water falling down over his skin? He didn't know.

He felt lost, so at odds with how thrilled with music he'd been the previous night, or even earlier with her singing. _Their singing_. Now he was a deflated balloon, shriveled on the ground, where he'd soared the skies not a day ago.

The soft sound of knocking on his door, followed by an elderly voice drove him out of his introspection. The old shopping lady had come? He hadn't been expecting her…

"It's me, dear. I'm sorry to come by so quickly after yesterday morning, but I must speak to you."

He growled in his thoughts, got up and prepared himself. What an unbelievably bad timing. Why had she come here in the early morning hours?

"Did your young lady like the pastries I brought you? Would you like some more for today? I didn't receive an email, so I thought you might have forgotten."

What was she talking about? What was this unusual cheerful behavior? She would come, bring him his bags and leave, no words, no questions asked. Sometimes, her daughter would come, silent and efficient, as he'd asked, and all was well. Why had she become such a chatterbox?

He approached the door, while she kept on talking.

"Is she gone? Her car has disappeared. I'm surprised she spent the night with you, but well, you've been so very lonely, I'm glad you found someone to share a bit of time with…"

"What do you want?" he hissed.

"Oh, dear, no need to use that tone with me. I might be younger than you, but I'm afraid I've seen far more than you have in all your years."

Great. That was _just_ what he needed. Another woman to tell him how badly he'd reacted. Why had he chosen to trust her, he couldn't remember…

"Now, you listen to me, dear. Does she know where she spent the night? With whom?"

"No. She knows nothing."

"You will have to tell her."

"How does that concern you? It is _absolutely_ _none of your business_."

"It is. When you met my grandmother, when you arrived and we helped you settle down here, you promised you would do no harm on these lands. She trusted you, because she saw something in you. I've met that girl myself, two days ago. You will have to tell her, because she won't let you go until you do."

That was why. They were seers, great benevolent witches, and nearly all dead now, their power almost gone. Only for small, unpredictable bursts of insight were they used.

"You have seen that?" he whispered.

"Indeed I have. Now, tell me. Will she be coming back today, and shall I bring some food for her?"

"Yes. Please."

"Good. Now, be a good boy for her, there is hope yet."

And on these words, he heard her feet on the alley, and then the rolling of wheels: despite her age, she still rode a bicycle on these sinuous roads.

Long after she'd gone, her words still echoed in his mind.

_There is hope yet._


	12. Christine VIII - Going Back

_Happy reading!_

*-* Christine VIII – Going back

She drove home in the coming darkness, a bit numb from all she had experienced those last 24 hours. It'd been a dream, all of it.

His music, their music, had been more than she had ever expected, or even dreamt could happen, would ever happen. In those 24 hours, she felt she experienced more life than in the past year.

And ever since she'd left his side, she could feel the pull of his voice in her ears again, pleading for her to go back to him.

What was that? This magnetic pull she felt from him, even when he wasn't there? Those urges to kiss him, despite all her good sense and reason?

She both dreaded and anticipated the coming morning.

Her home was just as she'd left it, but it felt as if a veil had been cast over it. That big, open house, that had been a refuge from her grief when she had first come, was too silent. Night had come back, and she rushed to the roof, desperate for air, for something _real_, and her heart kept drumming in her chest, painfully reminding her of her loss and her prison.

Today had been the first time she'd felt freed from her grief, and now she was back in that sea of sorrow, drowning in it, despair overwhelming her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, clawed at the tiles and moaned at the fading moon, tears running down her cheeks.

She fell asleep there, exhausted from too many feelings.

Morning light greeted her, soft and warm. Nothing like that cold empty morning from that cursed winter. But still it failed to soothe her heart. The sun felt harsh on her exposed arms. She felt the remains of her tears staining her cheeks, her skin tired and aching. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls on her back.

She got up, blinking at the sun, mocking her pain with all its warmth. She couldn't breathe again, and climbed down to reach her bathroom. The mirror greeted her, and her reflection was not tender. Ignoring it, she stepped into the shower and closed her eyes, washing the remains of her sorrow. The night hadn't calmed her, only briefly allowed her to let it all out.

For a night and a day, she'd lived again, thrilled by him and his voice and his music, but now the despair was back. She had to get out of this mindset.

For too long it had consumed her, and now he had tumbled into her life, to help her make the most of her talent. This meeting had not been just luck.

She had to look forward, and that meant getting dressed and driving over to him.

Slowly, she would build her life from the ground up again. And fight her depression every inch of the way.

After her shower, she noticed the clothes she'd kept. His clothes. She would wash them and give them back to him, but her heart could hardly bear it. Why was she so sentimental over so small a thing?

Yet these were probably some of the nicest clothes she'd ever worn. She caressed the smooth fabric, marveled at their strength and softness. They'd been dyed by hand, the color pure and deep within each thread. As an aspiring opera singer, she'd been fascinated with that world, and costumes were part of it. She knew how much care had come from making these. Had he bought them? Made them? They were new, never used. Why would he have those ready for her to wear?

The mystery around him always grew, and she was again drawn to him, almost desperate to discover each and every facet of him, if only he would allow her.

She didn't have to look up the way back to his house. Somehow, she knew it already, even after only gone up there once. Now she could see it from the bottom of the hill, even surrounded by the forest. It was mid-morning by the time her tires screeched on the red soil, and she closed her door.

Even after a single day spent there, coming back felt very familiar. And he was there, she knew it, opening the door before she could even reach the front porch.

Music. She heard him playing before she stepped inside.

"Please come in," he said gently from the living room.

She followed the beautiful sounds. Somehow, she knew what he'd been up to all night. Why, she couldn't explain it, but he felt tired and waiting for something. Waiting for her?

"Good morning, Erik."

He turned his head towards where she was standing in the opening of his door, not quite daring to enter the room. He was sitting all proper and relaxed in front of the piano.

He smiled through his mask, she noticed it clearly now.

"Good morning, my dear Christine."

She was prepared for it, she thought. But still she shivered when he said her name. Would she ever get over the gentle, adoring way his tongue twirled around the "t" and the "n", lingering just a little bit too long on the "s" sound?

If she dared, she would ask him to repeat it, over and over again, until perhaps she grew tired of it.

_My dear Christine…_

She would have to find a way to ask him about his past, one day. Sooner, rather than later, because who knew what mistakes she could still unwillingly make, by remaining ignorant of what triggered him?

But until then, she was content to relax by his side, while he continued playing, eyes closing to enjoy the music completely, untethered by mere sight, when his ears and fingers were so attuned to his instrument he only ever needed them.

She made her way over to him, keeping her arms and hands in check. She was dying to touch him, drawn to him, and the dark striking figure he cut in those clothes. Thin, but tall and elegant. And perfect posture.

"Would you sing again?"

Again, the words left her throat without her full consent. Without checking them. But he chuckled, a warm, deep sound reaching deep into her core, his fingers playing a much softer tune.

"As you wish. Please, have a sit."

She sat down in his sofa, right behind him. She heard him taking a deep breath, enjoying the electrifying silence from her waiting, the deep breath before the plunge, and finally his voice rang in the small, open room.

As before, the drapes were covering the windows, the air just a bit too warm, the lights dimmed to create a sensual atmosphere. The candles cast a lovely glow on his cheeks, golden to match his eyes.

His profile was handsome, too, as he appeared to her from the side of the sofa.

But when he began singing, everything around her disappeared, and only his voice mattered, the sweet, hauntingly beautiful melody he was weaving around her, enclosing her in a space of beauty and comfort and light.

Not blinding, harsh white light, but the golden, warm and flickering one from his thousand candles. The one so well reflected in his eyes.

His fingers stilled on the piano, and she barely noticed he had stopped, when he turned to look at her.

"Your turn?"

Even when it was supposed to be her lesson, her singing, he still asked her. To see if she was ready.

But was she, though? After last night's bout of crying on her roof, she wondered if her voice was not too throaty, too aching and sore.

And yet, there was only one way to tell.

She nodded, and he gestured for her to come near the piano, so that she faced him and he could see her properly.

"When you are ready, my dear."

She was focusing on breathing, in and out, and not on the way his lips had shaped the words _my dear_. So delicately. So full of warmth, again.

Going up and down the scales, to get her voice started, he was looking at her, observing her, his gaze intense and fixed on her face, her throat, her lips.

She began singing, softly, at first, again, to gauge how she felt, how her voice responded to her summons, and then reached deeper, as he guided her to yesterday's aria. She could remember his words with blinding clarity, and brought the memory to her mind's eye, to let it overwhelm her, guiding her through the emotions and the acting.

The notes escaped from her throat as though they were reaching for the sky, clear as pure water, strong as a mountain torrent, and so full of emotions…

He could almost believe she wasn't the one he taught yesterday. While she had struggled with her emotions, the day before, today she was a different woman. Her feelings were plain on her face, filling her voice until he was hardly breathing over the keys.

Nearly choked by how much joy she was radiating.

He would almost close his eyes from how beautiful she was, feel his own heart burst and swell from so much delight.

She wanted to live, and she would bring back the dead and the depressed to life, for such was the power of her song.

If he weren't a vampire, he would be crying, very simply. His body would not be able to endure so much thrilling glee.

When she finished, he was silent. He'd never admitted he was too sensitive, when of course he was, feeling everything much too deeply for it to be sustainable, and becoming a vampire had emphasized those traits. However, this meant nothing. Today, every human would have cried during her song. Every creature would have felt her voice reaching deep within their hearts.

That was perhaps the second time, in two days, he fell deeper within her spell. With so little guidance, she was creating miracles.


	13. E VIII & C IX - Symphony of Light

_To make up for the long absence, here's a second update :) Hope you enjoy it, I loved writing it!_

* * *

**_*-* Erik VIII & Christine IX - A Symphony of Light_**

She was drawn to him again, all along, while she sang, filling her voice with everything he inspired her. Hope, so much hope for the future. With him, and his help, she would become the prima donna she'd always dreamt of. With him by her side, nothing and no one would ever frighten her, reduce her to tears and a closed up shell.

When she looked back to him, to his adoration-filled eyes, to his arms locked over the keys, unmoving, shaken by the emotions _she _had evoked in _him_, the master of the Voice, she would have cried too.

"I'm ready for another one," she asserted.

He could only nod, and move on to the next challenging aria.

For hours, they rehearsed, and he directed her acting, letting her fill her voice with the right emotions, but every time, now, she amazed him with her control, her clarity, with how well she responded to his demands. She was the perfect student, and there was nothing holding her back now.

She gave him everything that she was.

It was frightening, perhaps, how much she trusted him, already, how much she let him see from her own darkest, deepest fears. But this connection was still there, linking them, and it soothed her fears. She could trust him.

He stopped her after a particularly fulfilling session, and led her to the kitchen where he began cooking for her. It was long past midday, after all, and she was starving.

First things first, a drink of water.

"Don't you ever eat?" she asked as she nursed her glass. "Or drink?"

"I am not hungry yet. I have a sort of eating disorder, you could say, and a fragile stomach."

She nodded, letting her nose appreciate the flavors of the meat cooking over the pan, the vegetables frying in their olive oil. For someone who was a picky eater, he sure knew how to cook.

Nothing had changed from yesterday when she'd joined him in his kitchen for the first time. She was sitting down, observing him, the precision of his hands cutting, preparing, setting down everything. His movements were still graceful, purposeful, not a hair out of place. It was like watching a ballet, and the smell added a very nice flavor to the dance of his body, arms and hands.

As before, she could hardly keep away from watching his fingers. Those hands could do so much, and what would they feel like in other circumstances? She was dying to know…

All too soon, hunger almost forgotten, he set down a healthy plate before her, and sat in front of her.

"Help yourself," he purred.

Again, this time, he didn't look at her, fixing his eyes on the candles around them, not even blinking.

And how delicious it was. She could hardly keep from moaning, for it was so delicate, so good, everything cooked to perfection and well-seasoned. Were there things he didn't master? Musician, composer, architect, cook? What other arts could she add to his growing list of talents?

In a few moments, she had finished, not daring to lick her fingers or the plate. It'd been that good. It'd been a long time since she'd eaten something made with so much intent, just for her.

Her father…

Her father used to cook for her.

And just like that, her mood fell again.

He'd been watching her, from the corner of his eyes, enjoying her little sighs and moans very much. Another part of his anatomy had particularly loved noticing those, but he'd kept it away. Thirst for her blood was enough, he didn't need to add another hunger for her body. And yet, what a lovely body. Her mouth, whether to sing or to eat, looked so soft, her lips, her tongue, he could watch those for the whole day.

Her hair, so pretty and wild. Her hands, her fingers, her wrists, delicate and yet moving with intent, care.

And now, her face had closed. Melancholy darkening her features.

"Is something the matter?" he asked her.

"My father used to cook for me, too," she began. "This reminded me of him. Thank you for this meal, it was delicious."

He understood what she hadn't said. _My father's dead, and I'm not over it yet._

_I don't know if I ever will._

"My pleasure."

He did look into her eyes, now. She was so very pretty, even in sadness, but he wanted to smooth the worry lines of her face, draw his fingers on her cheeks, trace the curve of her lips, see how delicate her pale eyelids truly were. Were they as soft as they looked?

The air was almost electric, tension rising, and then he stood, and the link was broken.

"You have sung amazingly, this morning. You must not tire your voice, and it would be best to rest it for the day. We can begin again tomorrow, if it suits you."

Oh.

To say she was disappointed would a lie. She was not ready to leave yet. She hadn't had her fill of him, his voice, _his music_.

"Do you mind very much if I stay some more? I would love to hear you play again. One of your compositions, perhaps?"

* * *

Time spent in her company had been such a delight, he was sad to tell her to go and rest, but he meant it. She needed to care for her voice, and if that meant she left him for the day, he was alright with that.

But now, she pleaded with him, asked him to play again for her. His own music, as well. Could he ever resist her? And all that she asked him?

No.

Old or new Christine, that wouldn't change, it seemed.

After he put the dishes in the sink, he went to his living room and sat down at the piano. She followed without a word, but neither needed to speak. What would be created under his fingers would fill this empty void much better than any words either of them could utter.

Delicately, with purpose, he placed his hands over the keys, hovering just the tiniest bit of a moment, before he delved into a symphony of sounds and colors. So rich, so fluid, so full of everything, she put a hand over her heart, and closed her eyes.

He was not alone at the piano, but had a thousand hands, and each had a mind of its own, drawing joy, sadness, hope, anger and desire from every note. With every stroke, he painted a landscape so vast and changing, filled with all the wonders of the earth. Her mind drowned in it, replacing every sad thought she might have had left from mentioning her father.

This was _life_.

Every turn and every road well-travelled. Every bend, every setback, and in the end, she could only wait for it, expecting it at every deepening chord, but it wasn't the end, not yet, growing again stronger and more joyous.

It might have been only seconds, or maybe hours, she couldn't tell, for when it was over, he was still the same, she was still the same, and yet everything felt different.

Such music…

Such wonderful, life-changing music.

Her heart couldn't admit it was over, and was still frantically hammering against her chest, her blood hot and pounding inside her veins. She was trembling, more alive than ever before.

She could have died, right there, and then, having witnessed more wonders than in all that she could ever live afterwards.

He was looking at her. Such intent in his eyes. Pleased with himself, too, if the little smile at the corner of his lips was any indication.

And it was night, already. She'd spent four hours standing next to him, lost in his music and the magnificence of his opus.

"What's it called?"

"I don't know yet."

"Find it a name. This deserves everything. And you play beautifully."

It seemed she could only form short sentences, her brain short-wired after that experience. How could she go back home now, having, once again, felt so much more today?

"I can't go home yet," she whispered. "Not after that."

"I am glad you enjoyed it."

And he meant it. He had watched her, at times, when he opened his eyes to see how she found his composition, and had liked what he saw. Every little fluttering of her eyelids, every curve of her mouth. He saw the goosebumps on her arms, heard her heart drumming, her blood pulsing, and her smell. Most of all, her smell had enhanced his playing. She filled him with so much fire and hope he could only try to translate it into sound.

"Where do you find such inspiration? Where did you learn how to play like that? Who taught you? Even as a singer, you must have had a teacher…"

Would she dare?

Small steps, first.

She slowly approached him, from over the piano where she'd leaned against, and sat down next to him. He moved, barely noticeable, just to ensure she wouldn't touch him. Still, they were very, very close.

She could smell him, from that distance. See his mask, and how nearly perfectly it was designed. Feel his breath on her skin.

"I was self-taught," he finally said. "I've always loved music, ever since I was a boy. Books have been my best friends, too, and it was there that I learnt to read notes, and other techniques. Through trial and error, I became a decent singer, and a decent pianist. From there, I traveled a lot, and found other instruments. The violin, the harp, the organ are only a few of what I have mastered over the years. And I have had a lot of time to practice."

He laughed, his joke lost on her, obviously.

She couldn't believe it. It wasn't unheard of, of course, to rise to such mastery on one's own, but still. He was very talented to begin with.

"You are so talented, I can't believe I have never heard of you, before, Erik. You could do everything you want, and yet you're here, in the middle of nowhere. Why don't you go and conquer the world? Why don't you share your music with the world? They would love you."

Where could he even begin to answer? His face was the first thing, even if now it was less of a hurdle than it had felt in the past. But now, he was a vampire, and people would wonder why the greatest musician the opera scene had ever encountered never seemed to age or die. And before her, he had lost those dreams for himself. Betrayed by the world and what hope at love he ever thought he'd have, he could never go back into that universe. Burnt once was enough.

What could he tell her?

He had to, the old woman had reminded him this very morning. She would be understanding, the seer had foretold. But still. It felt like such an impossible step…

"I wear a mask," he blurted out. "I am deformed, from birth, and the world can't bear the sight of me. Believe me, I know, I've tried."

_And failed._

Those words were hanging over her head, resonating in her ears, even when he hadn't even uttered them. Such terrible, tragic pain. She was right, then. And she wasn't surprised to hear about how the world had rejected him. Her stories were filled with such tales, and there was nothing the world hated more than ugliness. Of body, of course. The ugliest minds and hearts were still reigning over far more places than she could imagine, she was keenly aware of that, and was reminded nearly every day.

So she nodded, gravely.

"I understand. The world isn't kind to geniuses."

She reached out, to take his hand, keeping her gesture slow. She would not frighten him.

"Thank you for telling me. It must not have been easy."

No, it wasn't, and yet, with her, it had almost felt like the easiest thing in the world. She kept stroking his hand in hers, and the warmth was so unusual, so nice…

Why did she take it so well? Why did she try to understand him?

Oh, he should have sent her away. Left her alone and kept to his own darkness. But her light, her warmth, her gentleness, were intoxicating.

He just couldn't force her out. If she wanted to be there, so be it.

Still. There was always the vampire detail. He was dying to taste her blood, to feel how her heart would pulse against his chest, to know how she would react to his fangs piercing her fair skin. Would she cry? Would she moan? Would she scream of horror, or bring him closer still?

Over the years, all the humans he'd ever tasted had blended into the same pattern. He would charm them to ensure they never felt anything, never remembered anything. Blind to his actions as they were to his condition.

But She… She was not like them. He wanted to reveal himself, to see if she really was as kind as she seemed, as every sense was whispering to him. Stupid, crazy, completely mad, perhaps, but…

With her so close, his mind was not as sharp as he would prefer. Would she fear the vampire or the face of the monster more? That was the question that he needed answered, if ever something were to happen.

So many thoughts, in his head, twirling and tangling. He wanted to kiss her again. She had never stopped looking at him, perhaps as frozen as he felt, her mind filled with questions as much as his own.

But no.

He had plenty of time, and he would court her properly. Become a friend, first.

And then…

Then, they would see.

After all, even if all he wanted truly happened, and she didn't fear him, or run away and leave him, she remained a human. Whether in ten years or a hundred, she would grow old and die. Unless he turned her.

He'd never done it, and had sworn, long ago, to his then friend he would never endanger human beings. A condition for his survival. He'd stood by that promise over the years. And despite how much he'd wanted to, it had always been the line he hadn't crossed with his old Christine. That would have solved all his problems. He'd have waited for the boy she loved to die, with her as immortal as he was, and they could have been together forever, enjoying music and discussion and everything else the world had to offer them.

An agony, of course, to know that this decision had saved her and yet doomed her to a mortal death, too. She would never have forgiven him for his betrayal, and in allowing her to remain human, he'd broken his own heart forever.

Despite that, he didn't regret it. He lived with the reminder of how much he'd loved her, and missed her, never soothed, never forgotten, but he'd done right by her. He'd respected her choice.

The hardest lesson he'd ever learnt.

In the end, she had made her choice.

One day, soon, he would have to let his new Angel make her own choice. But for that to ever happen, she needed to have all the information.

He needed to tell her.

But not today. Today was for enjoying her company, her pretty smile, and the tenderness of her hand over his.

Tomorrow, he would begin to plan his future, and whether she would ever allow him in hers.


	14. Erik IX - Discussion, Books and World

_Thank you for the support, everyone, I really appreciate each kind word you send my way! =D Happy reading!_

* * *

*-* Erik IX - Discussion, Books and World

There were no more hard discussions after that, as she turned to the books which lined the back wall. As many books, old and leather bound, as could fit the space.

They'd moved to the sofa, and she started to quiz him over his books. He had read them all, in subjects as varied as medicine, astronomy, cooking, gardening and of course literature. His favorites were French authors, but he'd read plenty of old and contemporary authors, including some in their native languages. There was an old first edition of Dorian Gray, ones by a Russian writer she couldn't decipher, and another dozen in Arabic. A polyglot, too.

Every thought he spoke about his books was so profound, so well-articulated, made her wish she'd read as much as him. She wanted to start diving into every book he'd described to her, to see for herself the poetry of that particular novel, revel in the unfolding tragedy of another, or cry in joy at the happy ending in some of his favorite legends.

He spoke about his travels, to Iran, in his youth, to Russia, to England, and Eastern Europe in general. As she'd guessed, he was well-travelled and well-read. When he spoke about the places he'd encountered, it was so vivid, so descriptive, making her feel as if she were there, beside him. The smells, the noises, she felt them all.

He was such a smooth talker, he never made her feel as though she was less, always listened to what she had to say, very intently, very carefully, considering every word she spoke. Not many of the men she'd encountered did that. Treated her as a true, equal human being, and not just a pretty face to brag to.

So much so she almost didn't notice how half the night had gone by, until her eyes were burning from lack of sleep, and his voice nearly lulled her to sleep.

"You should perhaps stay the night," he purred, tenderness in his eyes. "Driving back to your home might not be the best course of action in your present state."

"I think you're right. But I don't want to impose, I've already stayed the last time…"

"I can assure you, it is quite alright. I… I greatly enjoy having you there. I feel a lot less lonely."

There. Had it been so hard to tell her what he felt?

"Alright, then."

His heart would have danced, if it was still beating.

"Then allow me to show you to your bedroom."

Not that he hadn't spent some time the past night to ensure he would have a room ready for her, should she ever need one…

She followed him up the stairs, into a vast room, more like a suite than just a bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but she knew that the next morning, she would be overlooking the valley. Still, in her sleepy state, she only cared about the bed, a giant thing with soft sheets and big pillows.

And a modest nightgown waited for her on a chair.

"You have an attached bathroom, if you want to refresh yourself. If you need me, call me, and I'll come right away."

"Thank you, Erik."

"You're very welcome, my dear."

"Good night."

"Good night, Christine."

And on these words, making her moan out loud, he left her to her own devices.

She undressed and settled into bed, his voice still echoing in her mind, lulling her to sleep.

* * *

He didn't linger near her bedroom door as some part of him wished he could so, just to remain in her presence a little longer.

Their discussions had entranced him. Without noticing, he'd spent most of the evening, and the better part of the night talking about himself, and listening to her, as well. He hadn't planned on speaking so much, and yet he'd told her much about his views on life, on everything, as they'd discussed his favorite books and places.

She always had the most witty comments, kind remarks, and the wishful look she had in her eyes, when he described to her the smells and noises of a Persian souk, the mysteries and the agitation of a traveling fair. It had been many years, of course, but he could still remember it as if only mere weeks had passed. As a vampire, time held a stranger meaning.

And he'd almost slipped, more than once, but so far, she hadn't questioned it. And there he was, having her under his roof, for the second time this week.

There. She was sleeping. He could hear her soft breathing, smell the scent of her dreams, and they were kind and mysterious, like a meadow after a rainstorm, life awakening slowly.

He closed his eyes, standing on the steps of the staircase, just breathing in, savoring each sensation.

Such a good day. Her singing, his playing, their talks… So much light after the foul mood he'd been in after his improper behavior towards her. She'd forgiven him his actions, if the way she'd looked when he played was any indication…

Melodies were rising again, within him, tugging at his heart to be written down and experimented with. And he was as much a slave to music as a master of it. Tonight, she was his muse again, and the music commanded him.

And so he would obey.

He strode to his room, hands trembling, and began losing himself in his compositions again.

He wanted to write her an opera fit for her voice, for her talent, to make her so beautiful and so striking, she would be remembered for the rest of time. Not for him, never for him, but for her. A token of appreciation. Of admiration.

_Of love?_

It was too soon to tell. She was filling his every thought, recently, but he wanted to be cautious, still. His old Angel had given him everything, but in the end, he had lost it all, sanity, music, heart. He only _existed_, until this new Christine had appeared to fill his void.

But she was so much more than that. And she deserved so much more than him.

Why had she come into his life? The mysteries around her tugged at his mind, in every waking moment. Why now? Was there just a coincidence? The seer had not mentioned it, but she had to know about it. She'd seen something, about his new Christine, he was sure of it. Otherwise, why would she have broken the promise never to tell the other villagers of the secret of his existence?

It didn't matter, though, did it?

And yet, part of him knew she wasn't his old Christine. He'd known her well, had loved her to the point of madness, cherished every detail of her personality, and this young woman slumbering upstairs wasn't her.

She had moved on, and the world had kept on turning, without her beauty, her kindness, her wondrous voice.

And the world had forgotten her.

There were no recordings, no pictures of her. In his weaker moments, with the internet, in recent years, he'd tried to look for pieces of her, if she'd ever been spoken about. Nobody remembered her, how passionately he had loved her, and how forgiving she'd been. An angel in the flesh.

Perhaps his new Christine was a gift, from up there. A young woman sent to test his resolution, now that he was ready for her. Able to be the man she deserved.

No. A person could never be a "gift". She might feel like that to him, but thinking that way would be dangerous. As he'd sworn before, he would strive to be the best "man" he could be. And in the process, they would see how their music combined.

Lost in the music, again, he only looked up when he heard her move overhead. She was awake. Her steps were slow, as if still prey to a sleepy dizziness. He would let her emerge, as long as she wanted, and then…

He would hear her again.

He couldn't wait to see if yesterday had only been a lucky day, or if truly, her acting had improved as only he would have imagined in his dreams.

But first, to clean himself up a little. A dashing figure in a well-tailored suit always helped, and he would need to tell her some delicate things today.

That, though, he would happily postpone.


	15. Christine X - Dreams, Food & Song

_As promised, here's another one for the weekend! =D_

* * *

*-* Christine X - Dreams, Food & Song

There was music, in her dreams, slow and gentle. Swimming through a warm, calm sea, running in a sunny meadow, the clean and earthy smell of the grass in her nose.

It surrounded her, playful and soothing.

She wanted to stay in that prairie forever.

And there was a voice, too. Like liquid flowing, lava through her veins. Desire, burning flame. Purring in her ears. She wanted to lose herself in that voice, please the voice, kiss the voice.

A man's voice, tender and sensual, singing words of devotion, of never-ending love. Everlasting music. The two entwined, in her mind, until she could no longer separate the two.

It was leaving her, as she woke up.

"Don't go", she pleaded.

But to no avail.

"I'm here," he kept whispering.

_"__Here…" _

_"__Here."_

The echo haunted her as she fully awoke, in a strange unfamiliar room. The large curtains darkened the windows.

She could hear the birds singing in the trees, the wind in the forest. And yet, no music. She was sure she'd heard some, though. Erik had been playing, she knew it.

But there were no sounds coming from the entire house.

Stupid of her to believe such a wonderful architect wouldn't soundproof his home, and especially the bedrooms, but… Had it only been in her dreams, that voice and the music that so well accompanied it?

The after effects of his symphony of the day before, perhaps.

She would never be over it, goosebumps appearing on her arms with the very memory of it.

Slowly she got up, to open the curtains. Just an inch, to see what it looked like outdoor. She wasn't disappointed. The view was superb. In the soft morning light, everything was bathed in rich orange, pink and red, trees with leaves of gold glittering, and the ground a sea of blood. Rather than turn her stomach, it amazed her, the color so unusual.

There was no place like this in the entire world. Perhaps that was why, of all the places he had visited over the years in his travels, he'd chosen this one to build his home. It felt poetic and dramatic enough for this man she still knew so little about.

When she had her fill of this beautiful, magical sight, she turned back to her room. There were a few candles of course, but what she hadn't noticed were the vases and how many were filled to overflowing with flowers. Perhaps that was why she'd believed she was in a forest, with their light perfume filling the air. Each one was freshly cut, the arrangement stylish and graceful.

A few paintings on the light blue walls, watercolors of ballet and dancing, of Provence, colorful but soft.

With every detail she uncovered, she was reminded of how much of an artist he was. No area remained out of reach for him to experiment on and become more than adequate. A real renaissance man, he felt like to her.

And cursed with a mask for a face. Balance, perhaps? To have so many gifts, he had to forsake the entire of humanity?

She would push a little more today, after their lesson. Just an inch, to test him. By no means would she ask for more than he was ready to divulge. She knew how it felt to be pressured for questions she wasn't ready to answers.

She went into the bathroom, a replica of the one he had downstairs, except for the mirror over the sink, and the absence of his products.

There were others, made for females, some he'd put there just for her. Or had there been other women?

No. They were all new, never used. He had loved another woman, a Christine like her, and she had broken his heart. That much she'd figured out from every clue he'd left. But no other, not recently, anyway.

She shook her head. Today, she would hear some more of it, if she had to beg him for it. She wouldn't have to, she believed, but with such a strange man, she could never be sure.

And yet he'd opened so many parts of himself, the day before. Admitted he wore a mask. And why. It had cost him, to confess that, she knew it. But it had been worth it, in the end, as he seemed more at ease with her.

And their conversation.

She could replay his answers and his thoughts in her head, the careful way he chose his words. His pronunciation, so precise.

And how she nearly fell asleep and had to stay there, again.

He'd put his handkerchief in her bathroom, by the sink. Clean and as silky as she remembered. Was it another one of his gifts? Thinking she might need to cry some more because of him? Still, she appreciated the thoughtfulness, and put it back into her pocket.

The nightgown she wore, too, was a priceless work of art. Simple in its design, and yet the material was rich and expensive, lace in parts of the bodice and the sleeves, and the hem, too.

He wasn't that old, and had surely come from a wealthy family. And yet, he had taught himself, not even wanting a tutor. With his face, if it really was as terrible as he'd said, it might have been hard to find one willing to teach him.

For each question answered about his life, several more appeared.

And she was determined to answer them all.

After she had showered and dressed in another set of beautiful, simple clothes, not feeling the fatigue from a few nights spent barely sleeping, she came down to the kitchen, following the smells of the food he'd been preparing for her.

She had barely entered he'd looked up and smiled at her, so brightly, so warmly.

"Good morning, my dear Christine."

Would the shivers ever stop?

"Good morning, Erik. Thank you for letting me sleep here, and for the food."

She wouldn't comment on his strange food habits, for it truly wasn't the most peculiar thing about him, and she had a lot more pressing questions.

"You are most welcome."

As last time, he put a warm plate in front of her, filled with freshly baked pastries, an open jar of Nutella, and a big glass of water.

"I trust your night was pleasant. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have everything you needed?"

_There wasn't you in it_, she almost blurted out, before catching herself and keeping the damning words to herself. As if she hadn't been obvious enough by now, how much she wanted him at times. How sometimes the tension just skyrocketed and she was left wondering how it would feel to have his lips linger on her own, after their much too short kiss. And the mask… Was that why he'd freaked out? Why he couldn't have born to have her touch him?

Still, she would wait. Hope he would come to feel as she did.

"Very well, thank you."

This time, despite his obvious wishes not to watch her, his gaze kept returning to her, and she felt the warmth and intensity of his eyes on her face more times than she expected and it thrilled her. She might be blushing too, but so far she couldn't tell. It was too warm still.

Sometimes, their eyes met, and she had to stop eating, losing herself in those swirling pupils of gold. It felt as though the entire world could be contained in his eyes.

He was still impeccably dressed, still sat straight and tall in his chair, his hands folded over the table.

How she loved his hands.

She ached to reach out and grasp them again. Feel those fingers over hers, both strong and so gentle on the keys, on the strings of the harp.

"Our lesson?" she asked, wanting to distract herself from all those lingering feelings.

He seemed just as "relieved" as her to be able to focus on something else.

"Yes, it is time."

In the piano room, he settled down at the keys in his usual manner, and began warming her up. As before, she felt an ease in those preparations she had rarely felt without him.

From arias to arias, they went, and she lost herself in those songs, letting his advice wash over her. In his music, she was reborn. Stronger, more emotional, her own gift thriving under his careful, gentle guidance.

With every song they rehearsed, she heard herself and could hardly believe the changes in just a few hours of work. But she had become the role. Shed her skin as if shapeshifting, as easily as one might lose hair.

When they were rehearsing, there was never any judgement from him, never the urge to hold back and keep some part of her to herself, precious and hidden. She wanted to reveal all of herself to him, make her character her own, meld the two so closely Christine was no more, only becoming Marguerite, Lakmé, Juliette, Pamina, Carmen.

These women were her, now, sharing her skin.

And through him and his help, she could let them out. With him, they felt so _real_.

When it was over and he called it off, she was spent. Exhausted, almost emotionally distressed. Returning to her own body, to the present, felt strange and unfamiliar. Her own struggles were too obvious now. Dimmed, and yet thrust in a different, unforgiving light.

More painful.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

She must have looked as out of place as she felt.

"Just give me a minute, I will be fine."

He nodded, joining her on the sofa she'd thrown herself upon.

She had been perfect. A different level from yesterday still. This time, she had become the character, her voice and acting perfectly tuned to whoever she was during the song.

At times, he almost had to look at her to remind himself of the young singer underneath the character. He had never heard someone sing like that. Just the slightest word to help direct her was enough to launch her into a memorable, unforgettable rendition of the aria.

And yet, despite that, he could still see her. Hear her, the Christine who had come to mean so much to him. Her perfect instrument, her lovely, clear voice, and how powerful she could make it when it needed to be. But she was giving it her all, now, and no one could miss it.

His heart could barely resist her. He'd been having repeated goosebumps all over his body ever since she's opened her mouth, and her emotions had nearly caused his fangs to appear, drawn by the rich, deep flowery scent she gave out.

But he could see how taxing it was on her. She would need to build up more stamina to endure the length of a full show. He would help her as well. And in the fall, she would be able to have her first auditions. He would bet his entire fortune she would get accepted this time, no threats or letters needed.

She was an Angel, a gift to Music and Humanity.

The world would see it.

No doubts of it.


	16. Erik X - Trust

_One long awaited chapter, I'm sure. Thank you for reading, here's a last weekend update! Because I love you!_

* * *

*-* Erik X - Trust

After a few minutes, just breathing, settling back into her own body, she remembered what the afternoon would entail, and excitement overwhelmed her.

"So, how was I?"

"Exquisite. I do not have the words to tell you what you did this morning. Now, all you need is a bit more work on your physical strength, your endurance."

She nodded slowly. Yes. Her current stamina would not suffice to last a full show, never mind an entire run of dozens of dates. But with him, she would make it work. The hardest part was nearly over.

And it had been almost frighteningly too easy. He was the perfect teacher, building her strengths and correcting her flaws.

In the fall, perhaps, her future auditions would give her the reward of such hard work.

"Thank you. I could not have done this without your advice and your help."

"You needed only a nudge in the right direction. You did all the rest on your own, letting go of your anxieties."

Perhaps it was so.

"Have you ever wanted to go onstage yourself? Even with a mask, it might have worked…"

"Indeed, I have sometimes wished I could go and perform, either as a singer, or a musician, but… It is not only the mask. While performing, it would barely matter, that is true. But people are always curious about what is hidden underneath. Eventually, it always falls apart."

Her heart reached out for him. Never feeling the ecstasy of the crowd chanting your name, applauding and whistling, with the talent he had, and how wonderful he would have been, how loved he would have been, if only the mask weren't there.

"Have you tried… surgery?"

She felt silly almost mentioning it, because he surely had considered it, but she had to ask. Anything to get him on stage and where he belonged.

"Yes. It didn't work. Nothing could help. My condition… It is very challenging, even for the strongest of hearts."

He didn't think wise to mention that ever since he'd retired here, he had not tried again. Perhaps modern technology might have helped him, but by now, he'd been filled with too much despair and resignation to even try and ask.

He had no wish to become the caged monster again, paraded for the world to see. And a case like his would make modern researchers very, very happy to dissect him. He wouldn't give them that pleasure.

"I am sorry it has to be so."

An old fear and anger rose inside him, for he would not be pitied upon like a small child. He'd been such a child, but that had been long, long ago.

Still, it wasn't pity in her eyes. It was a gentle acceptance, recognition of his difference, and the genuine wish to make him feel better.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. At times, it did, when I was careless. But most of the time, it is only ugly."

_Only ugly._ That was a euphemism he was not overly fond of.

"I am glad it doesn't ache."

She was relieved. That pain did not plague him was a lucky thing, in the unlucky event of his deformity.

"I wish I could see you, though. To see the face of the man I owe so much to. You have been the kindest man I've ever met, and there is no way I could ever repay you for it. To truly see you would soothe my heart over this greatest of debt."

"There is no debt, no need to frighten you over this."

"If you feel so, I shall not ask again. But if you ever feel comfortable enough, know that I would never leave you now. I could never fear you."

She did not understand the implication of such words… But he didn't have the heart to rid her of her silly notions, not when she was looking at him with such a warmth, when there was really no fear in her eyes, in her smile. She trusted him.

And that perhaps was what made him feel bold. Too bold.

"Do you truly mean that?"

"I do. You can trust me."

He stilled, and took the mask off. And watched her as her face whitened.

She opened her mouth, barely stifling a scream.

God… _God_… He hadn't been lying when he'd described it to her. He was horrible, making such a primal, childlike part of her wishing to scream and close her eyes and run away. It would have been the face haunting so many nightmares and horror movies.

But she was stronger than her fear. He was her friend, now. And she had promised she could endure it. Now the panic had receded, slowly, and she could truly look at him.

His skin was barely hiding the bones underneath, stretched too thin and yellowed. He had no nose, almost like a skull. A living corpse. With barely-there lips to hide his teeth. He had a wig, too, hiding the rest of his head.

She understood, now, why he had been so terribly alone. Why he'd hidden away. Why no stage had ever supported his dreams, why no manager had ever accepted him.

Talent could not hide such a face.

But for her, did it matter?

His eyes were still his own, gentle and golden.

His mouth was trembling, from hope and pain and fear.

He had given her the greatest gift of his trust. He had trusted that she would not go and leave him, now that she had what she wanted from him. That she would not turn and fear him.

She approached his face, slowly, an inch at a time, so as not to frighten him with her proximity, like the last time she'd done that.

She took his face, his cold cheeks between her hands, caressed the strange but lovely texture under her fingers, like the smoothest, most delicate stationary paper. Unfamiliar, but she wanted to learn it.

The strange tension had shifted, turned into something deeper, stronger, more meaningful.

Could she have fallen in love so fast? In the course of a few days, a few hours spent together, he'd found his way to her heart.

She wanted to love him, that strange man with his ugly face and his angelic voice.

He still stirred a great deal of unknown feelings within her and her body, and his face wouldn't deter her.

It was an essential part of him. In many ways, it had made him who he was.

But it was not all there was to him.

He was so much more.

She remained there, her hands on his cheeks, and he brought his up to cover her fingers.

"Thank you for trusting me," she whispered.

"You are still _here_. You are touching _it_."

"I am touching _you_."

He made a small noise in the back of his throat, disbelief and hope altogether.

"I want to kiss you. Would you allow me?"

"… Please."

So she did.

It was very different from their first kiss. This time, they took their time, just linking their lips. Just appreciating the moment. It didn't need to go further, it was warm and delicate, and just sharing a human connection they'd both been so desperately looking for.

For once, he wasn't a vampire unwillingly charming a mortal. Just a man, kissing the woman he fancied.

His thirst had been terrible, an ache flaming and pulsing, but the feel of her made it easy to ignore. He would lose himself in her touch, her smell, her tenderness. How she caressed his lips with her own, so sweetly. How she had accepted without a flinch his arms around her, his coldness.

For once, he was glad to be a vampire, immune to tears. Long ago, he would have been a mess at her feet, blubbering and sobbing uncontrollably, tears staining her lovely, warm and kissing lips.

Time stopped, it seemed.

It was like making music, hearing it and singing and playing all together, stronger, a physical pain, a joy that he wanted to repeat all over again, and again. He could not get enough of her, and so didn't she, for she did not draw back, did not let go of his face.

She was still holding him, one hand on his cheek, the other cupping the back of his head, her fingers softly petting his hair.

When she let go, he was still trembling. Could hardly believe what had happened.

He pinched himself.

No.

Not a dream.

She was smiling.

She had seen under his mask!

"It's okay," she whispered, as she gently stroked his cheeks. "I'm here."

And then, she stepped back, and hugged him. He was overcome by her warmth, her scent, how her head perfectly fit under his, his chin nuzzling her hair. He closed his eyes, wanting to savor this moment. Somehow, expecting her to pull back and scream at the monster she was with.

But she didn't.

She stayed there, her arms caressing his back, in long, lingering movements.

There he noticed he hadn't done anything with his own arms, just staying there, on his sides, unmoving. She had initiated it, so surely she would not be against him touching her.

Slowly, he drew his arms around her small frame, feeling enveloped in her softness.

"There," she whispered again. "Relax, Erik. Everything's okay."

He was a puddle in her arms, his body failing him. No more thoughts, no more brain, he was only feelings. Surrendering to those emotions, those sensations.

They remained embraced for a long time.


	17. Erik & Christine XI - Song of Grief

_Thank you again for reading everyone! I hope you like this new one!_

* * *

*-* Erik & Christine XI - Song of Grief

She initiated the kiss. And how pleasant it was. His hesitation was endearing, and frustrating at the same time. Here was a grown man, so unloved and so fearful of any human contact, he was shying away from the barest touch!

That kiss was the sweetest she'd ever given or been given in her life. Not that she had that much experience, of course, but she'd done a fair amount of smooching, and this… This was different. It meant a lot more, too. For both of them, but for him, mostly.

With every hesitation, though, he captured her heart a little more. She wanted to show him everything love had to give. Was it love, or just an infatuation? She couldn't know yet for sure, but she was attracted, and he was as well, and why wouldn't they go and try to see what could happen?

She'd caressed his cheek, and all along he looked like he couldn't believe her. Like she was some kind of angelic being, breathing life into him. She'd hugged him, something so simple, so basic, and yet it felt like she'd given him the moon, the sky and all the stars in the galaxy.

More so, perhaps.

His light perfume had been haunting her head, too. Something barely there, as if she'd dreamt it, but the flavor… She couldn't have imagined it. Both sweet and masculine, inviting, arousing, even. She could become drunk on that perfume alone, if he let her.

And when finally he hugged her back, she let out the sigh she'd been holding, waiting for him to show her he wasn't just a recipient of her attention, but was willing to embrace her too. It mattered a lot to her, that balance. She'd been burnt before, too. Giving too much, and expecting nothing in return was fine, as a theory. But in reality, giving and giving left you empty in the end.

Perhaps, in time, he would be more comfortable showing her what he truly felt.

She would hold on to that hope.

She stepped back, a bit reluctantly, her heart still missing a beat when his unmasked face appeared again, but she remained as she was. She would learn to love that face.

He deserved that.

Lost in all of these events, she'd lost track of time, what they were doing, and how they'd ended up entwined. What had brought them here, like this? She couldn't remember.

Ah, yes. She'd been tired, on the sofa. She had gotten up, to go and approach him, after she'd sung. He'd said she was wonderful.

And then? He'd revealed a bit more of himself. But she wouldn't dare ask for more information today, if he wasn't willing to share it. He had taken a big step, and it was enough for her. She wasn't in a hurry. She would wait.

"Would you sing with me?"

"Just one song. You need your rest. Then, I shall sing for you, if you want. Or play for you."

"Deal."

Her smile was intoxicating. Brighter than the sun, and almost as painful, for his fangs were aching to drive themselves in her lovely, delicate neck.

He stood, legs still a bit shaking, and she followed him to the piano. It really was the best way to sing together.

It was just a simple duet, a short but happy one. "Brindisi", from La Traviata. Not the hardest she'd done, but it suited them, and their current mood. To drink, and to love. Celebrating what would perhaps not be a single event, a relationship that would hopefully not be as short lived as the lovers' affair in the opera.

His Italian was wonderful, of course, his voice rich and powerful and so agile, she almost lost herself and her cue to start. Thankfully, she thought with just a little bit of shame, it would never happen to her on stage, for nobody could so easily capture her heart and distract her than he could with his voice.

Her own Italian was good, of course, having studied it for many years while in the conservatoire to prepare her future career. And as a French girl, it came to her more easily than German, for instance. The Queen of the Night's aria would one day be tackled, but for now, she concentrated on roles who better fitted her youthful appearance. She had plenty of time to prepare the greatest coloratura roles.

And it was delightful, to see him watching her, with just a hint of pride in his eyes. And of course, not hindered by the mask, it was lovely to see how much expression he'd hidden before, how expressive his face truly was. She could read him so easily. The joy, the amusement he felt with her delivery of each line, when she spoke of love's short bliss, it burnt her heart.

His smile, most of all, was radiating in his eyes, in a way that stole her breath. It appeased his broken features, made them almost irrelevant in how bright he became.

Such hope, as well.

He really came across as a hopeless romantic, didn't he?

The flowers in the room, his endearing nicknames, the way he was so easily charming and careful with her needs.

In another world, he would have been adored by the entire world. They would have thrown themselves at his feet for a chance to be looked upon with that smile, and the light in his golden eyes.

And yet, it was she, who alone would have that privilege, if things progressed where she wanted them to.

Thrilled, at the end of their duet, she kissed him again.

And this time, he didn't need an invitation to put his arms around her and pull her against him.

Of course, she should have guessed he was a fast learner, as with everything else.

Afterwards, he played something lighter, on the violin. Something sweet that broke her heart, tugged at the back of her conscious mind.

Her father's instrument.

She thought she could bear it, but the way he played, she couldn't help but be reminded of how beautiful her father had looked, eyes closed as he lovingly drew his bow on the strings. Gone was the happiness of before, melancholy filling her heart once more.

Tears down her cheeks, barely holding back her sob.

He stopped.

"What…"

"Please don't stop. Just go on."

He said nothing, and went on. It wasn't as virtuoso as the symphony of yesterday, on the contrary, the simplicity of the arrangement and the songs made it even more achingly beautiful. And so she let her tears fall, feeling as though her father was there again, playing for her.

One last time.

Losing her mind, it felt as though she could hear two violins, responding to each other.

Impossible, of course. Just a trick of her depressed mind.

But still, the sound accompanied her, as she cried some more, wiping her tears on the handkerchief she'd taken back in her bathroom. Deep down, she'd known she would need it again.

* * *

He had watched her breaking down when he'd started playing, and after the shock, he'd gone on. And her reaction reminded him of the last time he'd seen someone cry while he played.

His old Christine had loved her father's violin. Was it possible that this was the same for the lovely one sitting in his sofa right now?

He went on, forgetting he had the mask off, just watching her, as he went over the most lovely works of his repertoire. Simple pieces, designed to show interpretation over true skill and agility. The heart of the piece mattered more than the player's talent.

Long ago, his Christine had loved hearing him play. It was as bittersweet now, as it had been then.

Cursed instrument, that one, and yet, one he loved so much.

Perhaps he should have stuck to the harp?

But no. Soon serenity appeared on her face. Her sobs were slowing, her lips not trembling anymore.

She was soothed by the slow caressing of the strings, letting the melody reach her heart and calm her sorrow.

Her breathing had slowed, her scent changed again. He could read her scent as easily as when he followed a human's blood. It was pure instinct.

Useful talent.

The sea after the storm, that's what she smelled like. The air fresh and salty, cold but calm. Finally calm and at peace.

The dark clouds leaving, no electricity left in the air. Just the hint of the sun, behind the clouds.

He stopped. She still cradled the handkerchief he'd given her that first night and put back into her room against her mouth.

Past and present colliding, with her presence, and every detail of her. So similar at times, and yet so different. The duet had been wonderful. She'd been so free, so carefree, so loving and a perfect fit for Violetta.

Indulging in life's many pleasures, no guilt, no remorse. Enjoying life without questions or fears.

He wanted her to achieve that state of mind, that inner peace and freedom.

And it would start by letting go of her grief.

"Would you like to talk about your father?"

She shook her head.

"No."

He nodded, understanding.

"I mean. It's not that I don't want you to know, but… It is… Still too painful."

He felt like a hypocrite, saying those words out loud, but he had to. She needed it.

"It might be easier if you sang about it. If you don't want to tell me, I understand. But you should try."

She knew he was right. He'd opened up to her so much, in the short time she'd known him. And yet, she had barely told him anything from her life.

"I don't have your gift with composing. I can't write my own songs."

"Try. There are no judges, here. Only me, and you."

The gentleness of his voice, the caress it always brought down her neck gave her the courage to start singing.

Slowly, carefully pronouncing each word, she began telling him of her father's life. How her mother had died of cancer a few months after she'd been born, and her father never fully recovered. How they'd both lived in Paris, living on music, and songs, how her father's violin had been her first accompanist. She'd studied at the conservatoire, and for a time, life was wonderful. She had music, great friends, a boyfriend, and her father.

And then all went wrong.

Her boyfriend got a wonderful opportunity to sail the seas, as he'd always dreamt of. They'd promised to stay in touch, but… There was not much internet on the high seas. After a time, and several unanswered messages, she'd given up. College had begun, a harder time for them all. Her friends had gone to different places, and time had been in short supply, as she threw herself in her work. She just didn't see them so much anymore.

She would always remember, the most dreaded call.

He had not even waited for her to come home. He had cancer too. And six months to live.

She'd spent most of her year caring for him, days on end at the hospital. Her studies hadn't forgiven her for it.

She'd barely managed to finish her year. She didn't bother enrolling for the next one, knowing how useless it would have been.

On one cold, harsh December morning, the sky white and the light blinding, he'd left her. She'd been there, holding his hand. A small consolation to know he hadn't been alone.

Her father had been much loved by their music community, but in the end, she was still alone in their apartment.

She'd tried to enroll the following year, but her nightmares still woke her up at night. And her professors tried to tell her in not so subtle ways she wasn't ready to go on and become a professional opera singer.

She would show too much, or not enough. She could be sad, or feel nothing at all. Two years, she'd tried and tried and tried, to let go, to move on, but… She'd worn these invisible shackles around her neck for so long, she didn't know how to get them off of her.

And that was the sad truth, until now.

She hadn't noticed, how her tears had come back, how her eyes were red and her lips trembling, as she finished her song.

He had barely been able to stand there, listening, for every tear tore at his heart, every hiccup in her voice a blow to his stomach. How much she'd suffered, already, for such a young woman, undeserving of so much loss.

"Would you hold me?" she asked, barely audible, even with his vampire ears.

Taken aback by her words, he didn't move at first. But when he saw her closing her eyes again, about to inhale another sharp breath, he flew to her side and carefully held her close to him.

"You are alright, now. You are strong. It will pass."

How stupid these words were, but he had nothing more to offer her. Just the steadiness of his arms around her, how she held him so tightly against her as if trying to disappear inside of him and never let go, never leave.

He sang a gentle tune, to comfort her, trying to lull her heart to slow and her tears to dry.

Strangely enough, his thirst had gone away completely. Music and his care for her had made that ache secondary. More than that, almost irrelevant to his current occupation.

She needed him, past his teaching on music. He could be her anchor, the very same way he'd hoped for his old Christine to be his gateway into a new world. It was a startling realisation, but one he would try his best to be worthy of.

"Thank you," she said when she broke free of his embrace. "I will feel better now."

_What now_, her heart and mind fervently wondered.

It was still early, and after what they'd endured today, she didn't want to leave.

"Would you like me to read for you?"

What a strange request. But while unexpected, it wasn't unwelcome.

"Did you have a book in mind?"

He stood and approached his bookshelves. Poetry or a novel? She liked both, he knew that. Poems might not be the best remedy to her sorrow. A story, though, could ease her mind. Show her something else.

And he knew just the story for that.


	18. Erik XII - The Vampire Thing

_Thank you all for being there, and happy reading!_

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***-* Erik XII - The Vampire Thing**

He thought he wouldn't dare, but well. Today was a great day, coming along very nicely. Why wouldn't he take advantage of his luck?

"Dracula?" She asked him in disbelief.

"Well, it's a nice story, is it not?"

Oh no, she didn't seem convinced, and perhaps he'd chosen completely wrong.

"I wouldn't say nice… It is a happy ending for Mina and Jonathan, sure, but… I liked Dracula, as a character. When I was younger, I read a book on Mina's point of view. It… It was a love story."

Not convinced, but… What was that new behavior? She looked embarrassed, in the cutest way. And it interested him greatly. A love story, between a mortal girl and a vampire?

"Would you tell me more?"

"They loved each other, but the ending stayed the same. As I said, it kept the plot and all the letters of the original novel, but in the perspective of them being in love."

"And the ending, then?"

Even stranger, she refused to look at him in the eyes, twisting the hem of her shirt.

"It was disappointing, honestly. I mean, it makes sense for her to remain with Jonathan, her fiancé, but… I don't know. There is something sweet in knowing the one you love will never die. Will never leave you, and always love you."

He would have come down on his knees and kissed her feet, and wanted to shake the sadness of her tone.

For someone who'd been left alone, it made perfect sense. Well. That was a great prelude to tell her of what he was. No.

Not yet.

Better to wait, while knowing it would perhaps be easier than he believed to tell her the truth.

And so, he opened the book, at the beginning, and started reading.

She was losing herself in his voice, in the words he spoke, his tone fitting the story perfectly. He knew it well, it seemed, never hesitating, never faltering, the words a river, gentle and delicate and soothing.

It took her mind off her thoughts, for a while.

She'd curled up on the sofa, arms around her legs and chin resting on her knees. It was so pleasantly warm, and he was so close, sitting down next to her.

She'd missed this. Enjoying time with someone else, no expectations, no anxiety or social fears.

He read several chapters, looking up every few paragraphs to look at her, observe her.

It was a novel he knew well, of course, had been around when it was written, and had gotten a first edition, in the original English. She was decent in that language, but he'd chosen a fairly good French translation, to help ease her mind. He was no linguist, but time and his own genius mind picked up on new languages easily, and he'd had on his shelves a dual English/French version of the book. Not all of his collection was in the two, but in time, if this relationship between them went on, he would have either to help her improve so that she didn't need a translation, or to buy more in their native tongue.

All along, he thought his distraction was working. Her heart was beating more slowly, and she had relaxed, her scent as enticing as the night sky, wide and open and full of stars, fresh and clear.

Full of possibilities.

After the end of the fifth chapter, he stopped.

He wanted her to stay with him, but they had to keep up appearances of normality, didn't they?

"Thank you for everything, Erik. It was… Very pleasant."

"Indeed. It was my pleasure."

There was a delicious light in her eyes, something warm and gentle in the corner of her smile.

She got up, and went to hug him again.

This time, he'd anticipated it, and drew his arms around her small, curvy body. Would he ever get used to this perfection of a woman, willingly throwing herself into his arms? Why did it feel so easy, these days? As if all those silent, cold and dark years had been finally forgotten, a nightmare he could put to rest in the light of day and waking up?

What time was it, after all? With her there, he forgot about everything, including what used to be the only thing reminding him of the passing of time: his thirst.

With her there, even that old cursed friend was no more binding than the rays of the sun. He could endure the burning to see her off on his porch, could forget about the tightening of his throat urging him to _feed_ and to _drink_.

The candles would nearly burn off, if he didn't change them. Was it time already to collect the new ones from his old keeper?

"I will be returning tomorrow, for our lesson."

_And some more things._

She didn't say, but it was plain to them both.

He accompanied her on the porch, and she reached out to him, rising on her tiptoes, one last time today, to gently kiss his lips. It was the softest touch, but it made him weak in the knees. He could live off on that single touch for the rest of eternity, if it came to that. Just knowing she'd cared, even briefly, for him, would fuel his heart for the rest of his days on this Earth.

She stroke his cheek, one last time, as delicately as a cloud of mist, and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.

She smiled.

"See you tomorrow, Erik."

"Drive home safe, my dearest."

_My love. _He didn't say, but he wanted to.

He watched her leave, and returned to his home. Her scent was still lingering, most of all in the room where so much had happened. Could he believe it? It felt too good to be true.

Now that she was gone, he truly felt the weight of the events of the day.

Most of all, he felt the absence of the mask.

He'd gone outdoor without it, and nothing had happened. Of course, the sun had burnt him, but he scarcely felt the pain.

Would he dare? Going up, to her bathroom and the only mirror he'd dared set up in the house?

To see himself, as she saw him?

He needed to heal himself. His hands were better now than when he'd burnt them days ago, but his uncovered face had taken part of the damage. She hadn't seen, of course. Enduring that pain was second nature to him. Or was it even the first condition, and the absence of pain a relief he barely knew?

She had struggled, to see him and not flee. He'd sensed it. Seen it in her eyes, in the sudden curve of her mouth, the tight opening of her lips, ready to scream.

But she hadn't.

He still couldn't believe she'd touched him.

In that way, she was stronger than his old Christine. But the times were different, too. Exposed to a steady flow of horrors and sad stories, she was not so easily spooked and repulsed. Still, no matter what, it was a testament of her gentle heart, to give him that chance. To want him.

There was no vampire trick, he was sure of that, now.

Not even his power would be strong enough to overcome her fear and hate, if she felt those things.

And when he told her, when she knew, his powers would be nullified completely, and he would know, as unshakable truth, if she really felt something real for him.

He dreaded that conversation.

But he couldn't live lost in the times forever.

He had to anchor himself, and make something of his talents. He'd done it, cooking for her, making her a nice bedroom, fueling her own singing gift with his own, composing lullabies and symphonies for her. Just for her.

She'd sung of her father, as though song writing was in her veins, the very fabric of her DNA. If she wanted, she would be a great composer, too, if only she dared to sit down and listen to her heart.

To keep those doors to her deep self open and free. He just knew that she was capable of those feats.

Now she only needed to take that first step.

He would be thrilled to discover who she would become, when she spread her wings. She would fly, soar and reach for the sun. An eternal star on the firmament. Part of the tapestry of all the greats before her.

And if he could, he would help her become immortal in a different, more corporeal kind of way.

But that started with healing himself, and telling her.

Tomorrow.

No need to postpone something when the strangest hope was blossoming inside, giving him the intuition that perhaps, just perhaps, he was becoming an optimist. A dreamer.

If only his old Christine could see him, see the man he would become, thanks to her.

He would never forget her. Forget her love, forget she'd made him much of who he was today. She was part of his bones, now, still in the blood running through his veins. Imprinted on his heart, as dead and unbeating as the flesh was.

It didn't hurt.

No longer.

Just the faintest tug, the reminder of her hold over him. He would need to go back to her grave, put flowers on her resting place, and speak to her. Thank her.

And soon, too, he would need to mention her to his new lover.

_Lover._

How wonderful it was, to be able to even just think those words, and know they were true, and not only conceptions in his mind, not deviant products of a jealous heart.

She'd kissed him twice.

He wanted to cry and to laugh at the same time, and he did, curling on the floor of the bathroom, a delirious kind of laughter shaking his tall frame. He could no longer cry, and the twisting of his features didn't help putting the cream on, but he did both, unable to stop. A madman, he was, for once deserving that statement, but he was in love.

In Love.

In Love!

He wanted to sing it out to the heavens, let it reach the farthest corners of the galaxy.

And he did, too, letting the power of his voice echo all around the hills. Feeling the earth shake from that strength, every plant grow a little bit more, curl towards the origin of the sound.

His song was a joyous one, of life and new beginning.

He was a vampire, but tonight, he might as well have been an angel.

A true Angel of Music.

She didn't notice she was smiling until after she came home, in the early afternoon light.

Such a bright smile, the kind that whispered of wicked delights, stolen kisses and a smitten heart.

She was so smitten with him. His face didn't matter. How could it, when the man it belonged to spoke to her entire soul the way no other ever had before. The more time they spent together, the more aware she was of that connection, how effortlessly everything flowed between them. It almost reminded of the great love spoken of in stories, the one she had always hoped for. It seemed there, in her reach.

She took care of everything that needed to be done in her house after so many days not really there. Cleaning, laundering. Changing back into her old clothes, feeling like she was Cinderella returning home after the ball. Back to reality, but knowing something wonderful, beyond any words had truly happened.

He was a delight. Such a tender, awkward man, and in time, when he took care of his own heart, and past trauma, he would have no equal in her eyes.

She couldn't wait to go back to him. But first things first. She had a few Internet searches to make. Knowing what the Garnier and the Bastille had on in the fall. She would relish any ensemble or chorus part, for now. She knew, with his guidance, she would soon be ready for the title roles, but she had plenty of time. Experience would be the goal of this coming year, as well as building her stamina.

She wrote down the dates of the auditions, prepared her application. The recordings would have to be made with him, as would the pictures. He would be most helpful with these.

The sun was setting, and she felt tired. But not in a bad way. Just the way it felt after the day that changed your life. Or so it seemed, in her heart.

It truly was a new beginning.

She treated herself to a nice meal, missing the way he would cook so easily for her, but knew it would perhaps happen again tomorrow. She went to bed early, excited for the next day.

She woke up feeling calm and soothed. The birds were chirping softly in the field next to her window, and the sun was rising, gold and pink. She felt warm and peaceful, as if her heart had settled, was not empty with ache, or too full with desire and want. At rest.

It was truly a most wondrous feeling.

She couldn't remember any dreams that she'd had, but as she beheld her room, and the soft Erik teddy bear next to her pillow, she brought it to her heart, held it close to her chest.

"You were perhaps a clue to what was to come," she whispered to his misshapen ear. "Not as you used to be, perhaps a little scarred, but the same one who comforted me when I needed it. He's very much like you, and has your name. And I'm frightened, too, how dear he's become to me."

Saying it out loud was strange, but it gave her this grounded feeling, as if no more just feelings within her, but truths out there in the world. Real because she spoke them. As concrete as any other tangible thing.

It was liberating.

She got up, and opened the window. She settled in front of the opening, watched the field and the sun and the vines, all around her. She could hear the whispers of the wind, too. Feel it on her skin, as tender as caresses, as she cradled her plushy to her neck, kissing the soft fabric, her nose filled with its sweet scent.

Had he touched her, for real? His arms had been around her, but still she hadn't felt more than his hands on hers. His fingers around hers.

Today, she promised herself she would discover more of him.


	19. Christine XII - The Stage

_Here's another chapter to celebrate the end of Nanowrimo! I hope you like it, this is one of my favorites._

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*-* Christine XII - The Stage

After she showered, dressed and had breakfast, she drove back up to his home, giddiness slowly rising as she climbed the gentle slope between the trees.

Would she one day tire of this drive? Ever feel like she wasn't stepping into another world every time she passed his gates?

Her heart was beating faster, excitement and butterflies mixed within her chest. Goosebumps on her arms.

The door was open, and inside, he was singing. Such glorious, beautiful singing, from deep within the manor.

She had no words for it. He wasn't saying anything in a language she knew, but the pure _joy _he radiated was intoxicating. The joy from a man who had known so little of its wonders. Joy from a blind man discovering he can see again for the first time. From a wanderer dying of thirst in the desert, finding an oasis after making his peace with death.

Intoxicating. It felt like gold and warmth filling her veins, creeping back to her heart with their liquid bliss. It felt like glimpsing Heaven.

How was it that every time she thought she knew what his music was capable of, he was yet again surprising her with new heights? How did he manage that miracle, every single day she saw him?

A tender feeling in chest.

Was she the one who kept inspiring him? Or had he been the one finding new resources deep inside that had nothing to do with her?

Both, she guessed. She wasn't blind or shy or modest enough to believe she wasn't at least a bit responsible for the way his music soared. But his talent was unmatched, and he'd been the one shaping his voice, cultivating it carefully so that no one ever had that impact on her, with only a few notes.

She entered his house, following the sounds to a new room. It halted her heart. It was a theater. With rows of red-velvet seats, red curtains, golden statues and proscenium surrounding the stage. A chandelier illuminated the room, a beautiful crystal and gold antique. Electric light, for once.

He was singing on top of the stage, not facing her.

Did he have the mask on? From there, as she went up the aisle, to the small stairs at the base of the stage, she couldn't say.

His song turned questioning.

_Do you still want to see me? Do you still trust me? Was yesterday no dream from either you or me?_

He wouldn't see her, if she nodded. And if she spoke, she would disturb his song.

So she sang her reply, bright and clear as the sunlight. Stronger, she let it fill the theater, the whole house. The acoustics were exceptional, as well. She could feel her voice reverberating on every corner of the room, filling every seat, every square meter.

_Please show yourself to me. I am not afraid. I will never be afraid of you, or forsake you._

His hands were not trembling anymore, when he reached up to take off his mask, and faced her. Still, fear shone in his eyes.

She flinched, the slightest move, but held fast, didn't break her song. She climbed up the stairs, and went to him. Took his hands. And at the apex of their duet, she kissed him.

There.

No more fear.

It had surprised her, just an instant, but now, she would get used to it again.

"Good morning, Erik."

"Good morning, my darling Christine."

She smiled as she looked up, losing herself in his eyes.

The fear had gone.

"What do you think of this room?" he asked her. "I thought it best to get you to practice in real conditions."

"It's very thoughtful of you. Thank you, it's perfect."

"I can't rent the opera for you to go and try out your voice, but this will do, in the meantime."

Small smile up his lips. The irony of his words was lost to her, but in time, he would tell her everything.

Would she hate him more for being a vampire, or a murderer, as well? He hadn't thought of that. But he could hide it to her forever, so that she never needed to know who he had been. There were no people around who could tell her of who he had been, ever. What he'd done to those who disagreed with him, or were merely in the way.

Most of them had deserved it, of course. He'd let anger get the best of him, many times over. But that man was gone, vanquished by his old Christine's compassion, and love.

She had loved him, he knew that now. In her own way, and her own conditions.

Now it was up to him to share that new man with someone he was caring about so much. Someone who was his new Angel.

Once again, he would do right by her.

And that started with making her a theater room to achieve her dreams.

"I never expected so much, Erik, I mean. You had it before, right? You didn't spend the whole night making it?"

It was impossible. Or wasn't it? With him, she could never be sure. So many tricks, each for her benefit.

"No, my dear. I always had it. Let's just say I have a flair for the dramatic. I just tidied it up a bit."

_A flair for the dramatic._ What an understatement, on his part. But he was so giddy, himself, so glad she liked his new gift, so happy she still wanted to look at him, be with him, now that his face had been revealed… He didn't care about the rest.

_What a change._

"Would you like to practice?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

He nodded, and left her center stage, while he went to the piano behind her.

"Are you ready?" he asked, hands on the keys.

She felt dizzy. A stage. She hadn't stepped on one of those in months. There were no people, no crowd expecting her to fail, ready to criticize every word that left her mouth, every gesture she made, but she could still see them all, imagine their jeers and their pitying glances.

She was trembling, legs shaking, heart beating so fast it would leave her chest. She took a deep breath, but it wouldn't work. Wouldn't calm her nerves.

He noticed straight away something wasn't right.

"You are afraid."

He stood and approached her. He should have known this wouldn't be as smooth as he'd expected it to be. But deep inside, despite the anger he felt at seeing her so small and frail, and lost, alone like this, hating those who had driven all the joy of performing from her heart, he was glad he'd thought of that before sending her up there alone to audition. He would have some time to shake her fears away.

"Listen to me. Close your eyes."

He took her hand. It was cold and clammy, from too much nerve.

"Concentrate on your song, will you? We will start with vocalizing. Just Ah-ah-ah on our scale. Warming up, together."

"Together," she nodded, her voice timid.

"Start now, my dear. Soft and slow, just like we did before."

She took another small breath, and slowly began her warming up.

"It is only us two, for now. Focus on me."

He corrected her posture, set her in front of the stage.

"Go on. Very good, very nice, slow and gentle. Like that."

She followed his instructions, letting his voice and the familiarity of their rehearsal wash over her.

Slowly, eyes closed, she forgot where she was standing.

He squeezed her hand, and let her go, going to the edge of the stage, down the steps.

"Sing for me, my dear. Stronger now, I cannot hear you as well over here."

His voice was still as strong and soft, as if he were still standing beside her. She directed her thoughts to him, eyes still closed, and projected her voice as he was guiding her, letting it fill the space.

He was at the back of the room, now.

"You are exquisite, and the others will see it too. Sing again, now, my dear. Let your voice climb up and over each seat, to the wall. To me!"

She did, letting go of the weight on her shoulders.

Her last note was vibrant and powerful, her vibrato so perfectly controlled it would have shattered any windows.

She stopped.

"Open your eyes."

She did. Saw him on the box over the back rows, like a royal circle in a real theater. She hadn't noticed it coming inside. A private box, right in front of her and her sightline.

She could hardly see his face over there.

"Now, it is still us two. Nobody will judge you here. This place belongs to you. A temple for Music, the seat of Sweet Music's throne. And when you sing, I will listen. We will start with another duet, to keep you at ease. I shall sing from up here, and you will direct your voice to me, and only me."

It was easy, to fall back into his old teacher role, especially in this place he'd fashioned both as a shrine to what he'd lost, and a masochistic way to remind him of what had been, to keep the pain and the memory alive.

But he would fill this hole inside. Fill this place with her warmth and her light and her song.

First, the lively duet they'd practiced the day before. It was warm and joyful, to keep her mind off her fears. Just celebrating them together.

Then, they would perform Lakmé's duet. He could play each and every part of it, and the Flower duet was an old favorite of his. The Love one, which broke his heart every time he heard it, he would steer clear of for now. It would be hard to bear her singing those words to him, for now, not yet, knowing they were false.

In time, they might become true.

He started, a cappella, to let her get a feel of what this could sound like. And she repeated it with him, joining his music.

With each note, she started to let go of her apprehension.

This stage was just another room for them to practice in, perhaps a bit more beautiful and larger.

At the beginning, she kept glancing everywhere, her voice fluttering on some notes, the way she hadn't done before. But as his voice kept reminding her of who was there, and all the ones who weren't, grounding her in this moment, she forgot. She settled in herself, back into her body, and wielded her voice like a weapon, between her and those seats.

A wall to keep their hate off of her.

"You are keeping me at bay," he softly told her as they ended the duet. "This is not about protecting yourself in a cage and letting your voice fly to the roof. You must reach the seats, the patrons there. You must let them hear you, the real you."

He climbed down, and sat down in the first row, in the middle. Right in front of her eyes.

"Sing to me. Make it reach me. Enclose me in."

Starting again, slowly, gently, pushing her voice not as a sword, but as a hug, encompassing all around her.

"That's it, my dear, go on."

He joined her again, and urged her, to let her voice swirl around him, like the sea, like a tidal wave, gently capturing all hearts with her power. Delicate, but determined.

Then he let go on alone, on Lakmé's first song, and had to stand up, at the far end, just to hear her.

It was beautiful. There were some little things to correct, of course, but the spark was already there. If she went on like this, no other soprano would ever reach her.

He smiled.

And that gave her the courage to launch into a different song. Carmen's opening, in her native French too. Hearing her sing those words he knew so well, in her most wonderful voice, playful and charming, he shivered.

She was singing just for him, and he went back to the stage to accompany her on the piano, just to join her song and let her be used to the feeling of performing for him even when he wasn't in the box or the stalls.

He closed his eyes, losing himself on the keys and the voice he so lovingly accompanied.

She herself was feeling light-headed. Her voice didn't seem to tire, just like his, fueling off the energy he gave her.

The piano followed her, helping her reach new heights, and at last, at long last, she opened her arms, facing the nonexistent crowd, imagining in her mind's eye how wonderful it would feel, to feed off the spectators' energy, how they would finally see her, like her, listen to her voice, and she could hear the applaud, feel the energy and she shivered, tears on her face as the piano built up, again, and again, and she threw her voice on the last note, holding it, so long, so long, it felt as though he was urging it out of her by his sheer will.

She went silent, as did the piano.

She couldn't move.

He was still, sat at the piano, himself in a haze. What thrills they would both have, when the house was ten times bigger than this theater, filled with thousands of people chanting her name, and she was dressed in a gorgeous gown designed just for her, full warm lights on her elegant form?

She turned to him, and he wasn't startled to see her cheeks sparkling. If he'd had the ability, his own would be tear-stained as well. He stood and strode to her side, seizing the hands she so lovingly held out to him.

"Thank you for this," she whispered. "I felt… I felt…"

"You were an Angel. A Prima Donna like the world has never seen or dreamt of."

She smiled, and even through her tears, she was beautiful. He loved her. And she kissed him again.

He wasn't startled, despite not yet having initiated the gesture, but in time, he would. She was desiring his touch, and while it still amazed him, he wouldn't deny her anything, even his cursed body and the scarred flesh, and his hideous face. If she wanted him, she would have all of him.

He brought his arms around her body, softly caressed her cheek, to dry her tears. And she hugged him, so tightly, as if afraid he would disappear. It was still a chaste kiss, lips caressing one another, but it was igniting something else, too. The prelude to a brand new desire, _to_ _much, much more_. But he would never rush, just satisfied to let her kiss him that way, as tenderly as he could.

This was still more than he'd ever hoped for.

Four kisses. Would he count each she gave him, as if afraid they would end, at some point?

_Because they would._

No matter what happened, she would die, one day.

He drew back.

"What is it?" she whispered, her arms around his neck to pull him back to her, closer to her still.

"There is something else I must tell you."


	20. Erik & Christine XIII - The Vampire Talk

_I hope you like this chapter! Happy reading!_

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***-* Erik & Christine XIII - The Vampire Talk**

She was silent. Worse than his face? Of course it was possible. He could be a serial killer, a rapist or a pedophile. But was it conceivable? To be so loving and tender with her, and be a monster too?

"Tell me."

He nodded, and brought her back to the living room. There, the book Dracula was still on the small table where he'd left it after she'd gone.

He sat her down on the sofa, and settled next to her.

"Please, don't be frightened. I am just as I've always been with you, and intend you no harm. No matter what you think, know that I speak the truth, and I will never hurt you."

Now he was frightening her. What could he ever have to tell her to warrant such warnings?

"I did not chose this book randomly", he began, seizing Dracula in his hand. "I am not a human. Or rather, I haven't been human in many years. In the mid-1800s, I was changed into a vampire."

He let his thirst and her sweet perfume overwhelm him, letting his fang show.

"This is who I am, now. I do not kill humans to feed, and I only drink a little. They feel no pain, and do not remember me."

She was silent still. He could still hear her heart beating, but she showed no reaction. Her eyes were unmoving, and her scent didn't change. As if she felt nothing at all. What was that?

A vampire.

He was a vampire.

In his mouth, they really looked like fangs, pointy teeth to rip and shred and drink blood.

How could she believe that?

And yet, why wouldn't she?

After all he'd done with her, helped her, and everything, why would he show himself if that was not true? Why would he plan such an elaborate trick, now that he had her trust? What would be the goal?

The only answer remaining was that he spoke the truth.

And deep down, inside, she could put all the clues together. How he never ate or drank. How she had only seen him at night around her house. How he was so fascinating, so wonderful at everything he did. Of course, with nearly a hundred and fifty years to practice, he could master anything and everything his heart desired.

And it also explained part of her connection to him. Why she felt so attracted to him.

Vampire were universally symbols of passion and mystery, sensual relationships.

Dracula, indeed.

Her very own Vampire lover.

Mmm.

She did like the sound of that, for such a story lover, this felt like a dream come true, in a way.

And he'd said he didn't kill, or harm anyone. That mattered too.

What else could he do?

Did he want to drink from her?

She shivered. Out of all the things she could have thought about, that possibility thrilled her, excited her, and made her just a little bit afraid.

And one question remained, too. He needed to speak the truth, even though in her core, she knew it already.

"Did you use your powers on me? What exactly can you do? Am I here on my own free will?"

"Now that I've told you, if I had indeed bewitched you, you would no longer suffer from it. But no, I swear to you, my dearest Christine, I could never put a spell on you, not willingly at the very least. Rather, you cast yours over me. For here I am, speaking of something I have never told anyone."

And he spoke the truth. When he'd been lost and aching, up in Paris still, the seer had found him, knowing what he was, and hid him down in Provence.

Until today, he hadn't needed to tell anyone.

She kept watching him. He had told her everything, now. One more thing remained, but he would wait another day, to drop that latest bomb over her.

If she still wanted him around after today.

He was a vampire.

He really was. And he had never used his powers over her.

"Were you changed because you wanted it?"

"Yes. I wanted knowledge, and time. It proved a curse and a blessing. I have more abilities than any other human could have, but I have spent more years than I care to count wishing I was dead. Or that I could die."

It felt right, to tell her, to lay himself bare to her gaze, in a wholly different way. She had seen beyond the mask, now she could see into his very soul, and the torments that brewed inside.

She'd known from the very first night she met him he was different from anyone else she'd ever met. Knew he'd always felt apart, and better than the rest of humanity. Now she knew exactly why. And in some ways, she understood.

"Will you tell me your story?"

"Not today. Some parts are too frightening for now. But I swear if you still want to know me better, tomorrow, I will tell you everything."

"Including about the woman you loved?"

_The woman he loved_. How plainly she put it, to speak of his greatest joy and hope and sorrow, in so few words.

"Yes. I shall tell you about her."

She looked at him, fully in the eyes, her emotions at war within herself, for a brief second.

Who was she kidding? Who would believe her if she said she'd even hesitated?

She understood so much more about him, now. So many pieces put together, to create this tapestry, beautiful threads entwining. And the picture she wove, with all of these, it was beautiful.

"Have you ever wanted to drink my blood?"

"Yes. But I will not. I swear, my dear, you have nothing to fear from me, or these teeth."

She didn't speak, not dared to voice her feelings on the matter. But inside, her scent was as plain as if she'd spoken them.

_I wouldn't object._ _If you asked._

Oh, why should she tempt him so?

"What do real vampires do? Fear the sun? Turn to mist or bats?"

She had taken his hands in his. Caressed them.

How had she never noticed how cold his skin had always been? Why had she dismissed this, and the always too warm temperature of the air of his house?

"I cannot shape-shift. I am stronger and faster than humans. I can sleep if I want, but do not need to. I burn in the sun, but if I am well-covered I can still go outside."

She tried to imagine a life like that. Alone, gifted, but having to feed on the humans he hated so much.

"I do not cry. Do not need to breathe. And my heart doesn't beat either."

What? That surprised her. He…?

"But… I was sure…"

"You believed you heard me, surely, but no."

She closed the gap between them, sitting so close, and put her ear next to his chest, feeling the soft silk material of his suit.

No noise. No breath. Only her own, so loud next his silent heart.

"I can't believe all of this is real, and yet it does make sense," she murmured, reaching around to hug him, keeping her head next to his chest.

It felt still good, despite no heartbeat. He smelled nice. And his arms were not as cold as she thought they'd been a second before, warmed up by her own embrace and the warm air, as they settled around her.

This was nice.

He couldn't believe it. He would never cease to be amazed at her behavior. Or should he be frightened, at how well she took everything? Were they so well-matched, in all matters, that this was no stranger for her than his mask?

Slowly, he reached down to kiss her forehead, his dead heart desperately wishing to flutter from how in love he was becoming.

Her gentle acceptance, her questions about his condition, all so genuine and nice, she unmade his world to become the one and only star in it.

He had never needed the sun, and now she would even replace the moon and the whole of the other stars. She would be the only star in his galaxy, a flame to burn all others.

Four kisses, and counting.

The day he stopped counting, would be the day she died.

He pushed these thoughts away, just to savor what had happened so far. They had sung, he had shared his beautiful theatre with her and vanquished some of her fears of the stage, and then told her of his condition.

Tomorrow, the last burning subject would be unveiled, and all the cards would be hers to deal with as she wished.

As long as she wanted him around, he would be there. Until her dying day.

* * *

He made her another meal, after all their emotions, to refill her energy, and then spent the rest of the afternoon playfully talking about his books some more. He also played for her, delighting her with his mastery of the harp, once again.

How strange, to see such a tall and elegant man tugging at the strings, the most beautiful lullaby gauged from each stroke. If she were a painter, or a photograph, she would never stop trying to fix him onto paper, letting his beauty show for everyone to see. He was so attractive, over there. The electricity around them had rekindled once again, tension climbing, despite his gentle music.

Her mind wandered to a hundred different subjects, most of them related to him, and how much she cared for him.

A vampire. He was a vampire. And she didn't care in the slightest. Of course, it felt to her. A treat, for such a lover of stories and myths. It fitted her perfectly.

And in her deepest core, there was the concept of immortality she'd always been attracted to, if only because she'd lost so much, to make sure she would never lose anyone again. It was in her grasp, as impossible as it'd always felt.

If he was a vampire, she could never lose him.

After their afternoon together, she returned home again, leaving her new enchanted kingdom, to go back to her reality.

But she'd promised she'd be back for more practice in their new theatre.

And the final piece of the puzzle of him.

* * *

She had taken it so well, he was still awestruck when she left in the early evening, the sun shining down on her form as he'd suited up in a hood and cloak to protect himself from the deadly sun.

Her curls were golden in the setting light. And her smile just as bright.

He needed to feed, desperately, now. Until he could safely venture outdoor, he paced his room, feeling her presence lingering, the ghost of her smile, of her fingers on his books, of her song in his ears. He could still smell her too, enticing his blood, letting his fangs try to rip at everything in their reach.

There.

No more sun.

He ran outside, and found the first man he found hiking in the forest, and drove his teeth in his neck, drinking slowly from the rich blood.

He could think again. After he'd cleaned him up a little, from how overeager he'd been, he let the man go on his way, and returned to his house.

He was still amazed. Two things he'd wanted to tell her, and two things she had accepted without so much as a blink.

And they had progressed so much, together, as singers. Her voice delighted him more at every hurdle he threw at her.

And it was amazing.

He ran to his secret room, sealed away after one frenzied hopeless night, where his old organ awaited. He'd built it back, in his more desperate moments. And now, he was happy he'd done that.

The music was back, into his ears, into his mind, guiding his fingers as he drove his fingers back onto his organ, lovingly, excitedly tapping at the keys.

The glorious sound was deep and powerful, one he hadn't heard in a long while. Even when she'd first ignited his Music again, he hadn't dared touch this most favorite of instruments.

But now…

Now that he'd told her nearly everything, only the littlest thing remained.

He would compose a new opera for her, and launched himself into the overture. A grand and sad opening, the mirror of how he'd been before her, before she'd stepped into his life, shaking everything.

Music larger than life, but grief-stricken.

Unending night, cold and full of despair.

And then, there would be a little melody, rising, ever so softly, from the gentlest wind instrument. Just a hint of warmth and hope. Her theme. Slow and gentle, full of her own loss and despair, but brighter. She had never given up.

His soul was alight with the possibilities and the myriad of ideas, a whirlwind of them in his brain, and his fingers could hardly write fast enough to keep up with them.

He barely noticed morning had come, when he heard her car slowly climb up the driveway, and her scent reach his nose.

She was excited and ready for a new day with him. And so was he.

He strode to the door, to open it to her. Would she greet him with a kiss?

Her eyes were sparkling bright as she made her way to him, and he closed the door behind her. Alone again, the sunrays unable to reach him. She reached out to caress his cheek, lovingly tracing the corner of his jaw, settling over his lips.

"Good morning, my dearest," he whispered against her fingers, not daring to kiss the loving limbs.

She smiled, barely hiding her shiver at his rich and sensual voice.

"Good morning, Erik."

And she pulled him to her, in a warm, gentle kiss. There was no need for more.


	21. Erik & Christine XIV - Story of the Mask

_Happy reading!_

* * *

***-* Erik & Christine XIV - The Story of the Mask**

After their singing session, in the theatre, where they'd rehearsed Lakmé's opening aria as her audition piece, she'd been once again extraordinary. It would fit the young woman perfectly, and show her skill, her clarity and her control. They retreated to the living room, and its thousand candles and books.

She glimpsed the mask sitting on the table, near the Dracula book, where it hadn't moved from two days ago.

"Do you mind if I try your mask?"

"It will not fit you, but please do as you wish."

She took it into her hands, marveling at the soft, skin-like texture. It was still heavy, and warm.

Against her cheek, as she put it, her eyes only slits in the mask, despite how well it could have fitted her face, she could barely see. Her nose was encased in it, and she could hardly breathe. And her mouth, thankfully, was free of it. It was so uncomfortable.

"Did you wear it all the time?"

"Every hour of every day."

"Since you were born?"

"Nearly so. I have very few memories of my childhood. Most of them are not pleasant. My mother gave me my first mask. Along the years, I switched to better, more appropriate materials. I needed to sing, you see. She never liked me. Never embraced me. Never…"

Despite the years, she could hear the pain in his voice.

"I left home very early, and in that time, children were not given time to play too much. I ran away at 7. Found a traveling fair. They were admiring my voice, my compositions. Delighted in showing my face as the Angel of death, a monstrous head, with an angelic voice. The contrast brought many patrons to our group, and I was tolerated for that."

The way he spoke of it, so detached, as though it was natural to run away. The mix of pain and blandness was sickening.

"I traveled for many years, went to Persia, as I told you. But that trip ended badly, and I was forced to return to Paris, to hide. Along the way, I found a vampire. He didn't want to attract attention, but I convinced him to turn me. I helped build the Garnier, and that's where I spent the next five years. And where I met her."

_Her._

It meant everything.

"I loved her. She had the most exquisite voice, but rough from no training. I said I would help her, hidden as a bodiless voice. Her Angel of music."

She was listening intently. She couldn't believe how similarly he'd tried to meet with her, help her, and train her. She felt uneasy. And yet, this time around, she'd pursued _him._ He'd never hid from her. Always been careful to show himself. And wanting nothing to do with her, at first, and how she understood, now, why he'd been so evasive and reluctant. She'd been a living, real, singing reminder of who he'd lost.

"For three months, we worked together. She had her debut, was the star of all of Paris. And she met an old childhood friend."

Three months, and what an impact it had had on him. The pain was back into his voice. She could see where this was going, but she kept listening, squeezing his hand between hers. She had wanted to know, and so she would, despite how unpleasant it might be for them both.

"He fell back in love with her. Perhaps he'd never stopped. Perhaps she hadn't stopped loving him either. I became jealous. I threatened them both. The whole of the Opera. I was so in love, so blinded by my feelings, I lost control."

"What do you mean, lost control?"

"I killed once that year. It never happened again, but it was too much for her. She was afraid of me, of my temper. Didn't want anything to do with me. I tried to lure her back to me, but her fool of a lover went to retrieve her, helped by a friend of mine, a Persian officer from that time we worked on the Shah's palace. I… I did everything wrong. But she understood. She managed to free herself and her lover, and my friend I had so unjustly treated."

"How?"

"She kissed me. She showed me she loved me, in her own way. And I knew, then, I had to let her go."

She was crying.

Despite the years, he was still that little boy who had never known a mother's love or comfort. Never known love, either, unless it was painful. Or brutal.

And it broke her heart.

"She went away, and I promised I would never seek her out again. I never saw her after that."

"Never?"

"Never."

Silence.

"She married her lover, and had a few children. She never sang at the opera again. Traumatized, of course. I know that now. One day, I learnt she had died."

She squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster. Of course, there would be no happy ending to that story.

"Every year, since, I have placed flowers on her grave."

"Do you still miss her?"

"Very much. She showed me so much. She made me a different man. But thanks to _you_, Christine, things are different now."

He spoke of that, but his eyes seemed uncertain. As were hers, she was sure.

"I understand if you do not wish to see me again, after all I've told you. I do not deserve any more than what you have given me already. I would live through all this pain again, a thousand times, if it meant getting to know you, to hear you, to kiss you. But if this is goodbye, know that I will always love you."

She cried some more, and brought his head down to hers, to kiss him. To make him feel that this was not mere compassion, not gentle acceptance only.

She loved him, too.

And one day, she would speak the words back to him.

For now, her kiss, her embrace would have to suffice.

She wouldn't leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

* * *

He'd told her everything. Every card was hers now, and still she'd chosen to kiss him. To show him it didn't matter, he was still cared for. No matter what, he believed her. Had opened his heart to her.

They talked some more, that day.

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?"

"Of course not."

She didn't want to go back.

Every kiss felt like a spell woven between them, every embrace, every word spoken brought them closer together.

And now, leaving his side almost felt too hard.

"Would you come into bed with me? Sing me to sleep, and then leave if you want?"

He was startled. But he couldn't deny the attraction brewing between them, growing steadily stronger each time their eyes met. Each time he smelled her, touched her, kissed her.

"I would sing the whole night for you, if you want."

"Just staying will be perfect."

She went through her night routine, brushed her teeth, her hair, put on her nightgown, and settled under the warm covers.

He was still in his silken suit.

"Don't you have something a bit more relaxed to put on while you're home?"

"Mmm. Maybe? Please give me a minute."

He went down the stairs, and through the open door, she heard him retreat to his bedroom. Despite their talks, he had still never invited her inside.

And then he came back, wearing a beautiful silken coat, the material soft and light, depicting Persians symbols and embroidered with golden threads and dragons from the east.

"Is that lounging?"

"I only have a shirt underneath."

Her cheeks went aflame.

"And underpants!" he added to her delight, seemingly confused at her reaction.

"Come here, and hold me, please, now you're appropriately dressed."

"Your wish is my command."

And he joined her, as she settled her head on his chest, her warmth so wonderful, her weight and the covers so delightful an addition. The bed was wonderfully soft, and he might drift off as well, if he didn't take care to stay awake.

She sighed, loving the feel of his arms around her, still covered, but with a lot less clothing than usual. One day, soon, she'd feel his naked skin over hers.

But now, she just breathed, deeply, his sweet masculine scent drifting her to sleep, while he caressed her hair and sang soft melodies into her ears.

He could get used to that, he realized with growing fondness. Having her at his home, singing together, talking together, and the feeling of her falling asleep in his arms.

Most nights he waited a bit before leaving her and going out to feed, but some nights he stayed longer.

He'd never stayed the whole night, though.

Sometimes her proximity proved too much for him to bear.

And of course, the shadow of the ghosts haunting him was never fully gone. Despite the years, he couldn't forget it had started like this, in a way, with his old Angel. They would talk and sing and she would stay in his home, too.

Sometimes, he could hardly shake the fears she would leave, once she was back in Paris, and an acclaimed Diva. She would have what she wanted, be who she'd wanted to be, and have no need for an old vampire with attachment issues.

He'd seen it happen, in a way. Not that he hadn't brought it upon himself. That terrified him. To think he would somehow, someday, do something, say something to frighten her and push her away from him.

He wouldn't bear it.

Not now, that he'd built his life back, all around her.

But whenever he tried to voice his fears, she smiled at him, and he forgot. Put it all away. Later, he thought. Not now, while she looked at him like he contained the whole wide world and even more so.

She settled on spending a night out of two in his home. She kept to her bedroom, and was always awakened by a gentle lullaby. Sometimes, she felt him leave, and tightened her hold over him. Still, each morning, he was gone.

August came and went, and so September started, the day of the auditions looming closer.

They hadn't yet talked much about what it would entail, each taking in the wonderful days they were spending together and not the inevitable ending.

Of course, it would only be different, not in bad way.

They could still spend time together. But if she succeeded, and they had both reasonable reasons to believe she would, things would change. With rehearsals and tech week and the actual performances, their ideal days spent together would change.

In his dreams, or earlier times, he could have swept her away and let her perform for him alone, keeping her light to enjoy all on his own. But these days were long past, and he would learn to share.

He'd buy a box at the theatre she'd perform in if it meant he could be there each and every night, to share in her triumph.

But thinking about this would not help, not yet. There was a time for everything.

* * *

They were enjoying an afternoon on their sofa, side by side, her head in his lap, as she drew circles on his hand, and he read a book out loud to her, his other hand caressing her hair.

The most comfortable pillow she could ever ask for.

He never felt too cold anymore.

"It is silent, your heart," he said, finally.

"What do you mean?"

"You no longer flinch from seeing me. I haven't heard anything from your heart. Before, I could still see your reaction, hear it, and feel it, even though you hid it. But now, nothing. Or…"

"Or what?"

"You seem happy. Missed heartbeat of joy, not disgust. Not fear."

"Indeed, my love. Erik."

She hadn't noticed it, before, but it was true. Now, she saw the face fully, but she had too much joy in her heart, too much love, to be anything but happy and aching with desire to see his face.

She brought her hand to his cheek, as he settled his on top of her fingers.

"Your cheek is so soft. The light in your eyes, reflecting so much. Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful your irises are? Golden and bright, like molten gold, but softer. And the sharp angles, like the statues of old, the Roman and Greek gods. If I were a painter, or a sculptor, your face would be such an inspiration. So many ways to catch the light, so many angles, so many colors and textures. You are unique, it's true. But it is just as you are. Extraordinary. One of a kind."

She spoke true words, words she felt from the bottom of her heart, and he knew it. The scent of truth clung to her, as potent as her love. It was almost too strong for him to bear.

So lovely.

He put the book aside, and she got up to kiss him, as he put her flush against him.

One hundred, seventy-two kisses.


	22. Erik & Christine XV - Auditions

_Happy reading! Hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

***-* Erik & Christine XV - Auditions**

Half of September was gone already, filled with their songs, their rehearsals, and their gentle discussions on the sofa of their living room.

She had built up her strength, her stamina, and would now be ready for auditioning. It was time to leave their peaceful retreat, and drive back to the capital.

"I will accompany you, if you wish it."

"Of course. I will do better, knowing you're there."

So they took her car, on a warm September evening, up to the city. They would be staying at her old apartment, and take the car to her different auditions, the following week. Once upon a time, she would have taken the subway, but she really wanted him to be there, and he would have an easier time accompanying her if he did not have to suffer going through the Parisian streets as a masked man. Even with her, and the sometimes strange Parisian crowds, it wouldn't do attracting too much attention.

And of course, she needed her own accompanist, and who'd do that better than the one man who'd helped her get ready?

The night before her auditions, she could barely eat, even though he had outdone himself for her meal. The pasta was excellent, cooked to perfection despite her outdated kitchen appliances. But as had become a running joke between them, he didn't mind old things.

"You should eat. You will need the energy, for tomorrow. Especially since you don't want to eat in the morning."

"I can't, Erik, I just…"

She couldn't even speak, now. How would she sing, if even now her nerves were getting the best of her?

"It will be alright. We have practiced each of your audition pieces to perfection. You will be warmed up and smiling and exquisite. The stage managers will hear one note and want you. Don't even look at the other candidates, you will have enough time to know them afterwards."

"And you will be there."

"Yes. I will be there."

She brought his arms around her, settling underneath his chin, while his hand caressed her curls. She loved being held, he knew that now, and he initiated the connection more times than he'd ever thought he would.

He drew soothing circles on her back, trying to ease her breathing, kissed the top of her head.

"I love you."

He stilled, sure he hadn't heard her correctly. She had spoken so quietly, it wasn't real.

"I love you," she said, drawing back to keep her eyes deep into his.

He was struck. Couldn't say a word.

"I love you, Erik," she repeated a third time.

It had never been so complicated to utter a single word. Words he'd thought many times, but had never dared to repeat since that first time in his home after his final reveal, for fear of driving her away, of losing her, of finding her turned to mist into his arms.

But then he found his voice.

"I love you, my dearest, my love, my light, my Christine," he sang.

Her little laugh was an Angel's laugh, pure and delicate, and he showered her with soft kisses, so tender, it almost ached.

She was still here.

She loved him.

The world could stop and turn to dust, he could die, and not wish for more. She was perfection.

She was burning, delirious from her joy and the strength of their love. Would it ever be enough, to spend these moments in the arms of the man she loved?

Fear had taken a step back, lost in the security of knowing no matter what happened, he would be there, to hold her, to sing with her, to share their music.

She could audition. With him by her side, she could do anything.

And she would succeed.

* * *

That night, they settled into her old single bed. It was a tight fit, considering how tall he was, but she wouldn't dare take her parents' bed, and it was out of question to spend this night away from him. Not after what they'd finally admitted to each other.

She'd squeezed into his arms, still dressed in the nightgown he'd gifted her (and it had not belonged to his old Christine, even though it was old and precious, for she had never worn it) and him still in the Mandarin lounge wear.

She still hadn't discovered what lay underneath it, for he had been most intent on not showing her his skin.

"My face is bad enough, and what we have is enough."

"What if I want more from you? I want you, Erik. Please."

"Please respect this choice, my dear. In time, perhaps, we shall share that."

But not yet.

It infuriated her, made her burn inside, but even though she didn't understand, she never tried to make him uncomfortable. Choices were the basis of a relationship. She would respect his, as he'd always respected hers.

So they lay together, as the flat was dark and silent.

The noise was different from what they'd had the day before. His vampire ears could pick up every sound of the road, the cars, the breaths of the people around them, in their own homes.

Such an overload of sounds and smells, he hadn't had in many long years. But he would bear it for her, of course, and learn to get used to that.

Still, he tried to focus on her breathing, on her scent.

The old companion of her nerves, that odor of too sweet decay was something he'd tried many times today to soothe, but it was coming back, now that her mind wandered to fall asleep.

He pulled her closer, and softly sang in her ear. A new lullaby he'd made just for her, while she was asleep and he'd spent the night composing the first full two acts of the opera.

Words similar to ones he'd spoken when they'd met, and he'd tried to comfort her.

Little by little, her smell turned back to the one she had when she fell asleep, soft roses and lovely meadows.

* * *

He woke her up, gently, a few minutes before her phone was set to ring.

"Time to get ready, my dear."

She frowned and her heartbeat rose a little, her fear coming off strong as she started to fully wake.

"I'll let you prepare yourself," he murmured in her ear, and kissed her forehead.

Then he left her room to dress himself and wait for her.

She'd felt his presence over her, as she struggled to remember what day it was.

It was her big day.

And she would not fail.

She got up on trembling legs, went to shower, and when she came back to dress herself, she found on her wardrobe a new set of clothes. There was a lovely card next to them.

_Here is my last good luck gift. You do not have to wear these, but if you do, they'll bring you luck._

_Don't pay attention to the others._

_Have faith in your hard work and your talent, and remember. I am there._

_You'll be wonderful._

_Yours, with love,_

_Erik._

She smiled, and kissed the card. Put it gently aside, to keep it.

Where would she keep it? She wanted it on her body, close to her heart.

She fished from her old jewellery box an old necklace one of her friends had given her, with a pendant which opened, and a small cavity inside. She folded the card and put it there, against her chest, between her breasts.

There.

She would keep him with her, now, and that knowledge eased a bit of her fears.

She dressed in the clothes he'd so lovingly set aside for her, well-made and well-tailored to her measurements, as usual, the material soft and warm on her skin.

There. She was ready.

He was waiting for her in her living room, with a hat, masked and cloaked and looking magnificent. Together, they made a rather dashing couple, if she could say so herself.

"These clothes look perfect on you, my dear."

"Thank you. For everything."

"And now, off we go, if we do not want to be late."

Despite her nerves, she managed to make the short drive through the crowded Parisian streets and the heavy traffic to park next to the Bastille Opera. Thankfully, at this time of the morning, that parking area was not yet full.

He wasn't used to travelling by car himself, preferring to run through the shadows of the city, hidden and disappearing in every dark corner, but dressed as he was, protected from the sun's deadly rays, he rather enjoyed it, with her as his driver. She didn't speak, nor did he try to ease the mood. He could smell her fear and anxiety haunting the small interior of her car, but pretending it did not exist was the best course of action. So he let the silence surround them, only holding to her hand, and squeezing it every so often, to remind her he was there.

Everything would be fine.

Of course, the city had not changed much. He'd seen it not a year ago, when he visited the graveyard his old Christine was buried in, and had born witness to all the changes in a century. The horses gone and replaced by cars. How it had become larger and larger, north and south expanding. How the fields had retreated even more.

He paid it no mind, he'd never liked the city itself much, except for when it was the capital of the arts. Now, it was still the city of lights, and for a vampire like him, not the most perfect fit.

Soon the Bastille loomed near, the great Theatre where she was supposed to audition today. They would be producing Lakmé. Their first choice, and her first audition. He had no doubts she would be perfect, but times had not changed on some points: most of the time, they never cast new performers and barely out of school ex-students for the title roles. One had to earn it by understudying it.

But it would never suit him.

His Christine, there on stage for a mere two minutes! It would be heresy.

Still, he said nothing, as she parked and he left to open her door, taking back her hand into his. The walk was short to the opera house, and obscured for most of the way, but the noises and the smells were a harsh contrast to the peace and serenity they'd felt down in Provence.

They would both have to get used back to the city, especially since they would live there for a while now.

* * *

All too soon, it seemed, she stood near the entrance of the great Opera Bastille. As the Garnier hosted only ballet for the remainder of the season, it had not made her list of available auditions.

She was just as glad not to be thrown into that place, not yet. As glorious as it was, she feared the impact it would have on Erik, to be back in his old home, where so many events had happened.

It was still a very nice building, more modern but just as grand. The architecture was just as impressive.

There were already a few people inside, and most of them she knew, either because they'd been classmates, people she'd had shows with, or even performers she had admired from afar.

These were only females, waiting to audition for the main and ensemble roles, and their accompanists.

Sensing her agitation, he kept her hand tightly into his, caressing her skin, as they settled down to wait.

She could almost hear his words in her ears again, though he had not uttered a word since they'd left her house.

_Do not pay attention to the others._

He noticed the excited performers, ones who had seen it all, done it all, and were neutral smelling. Some, he didn't like at their mere scent: over-confident, dismissing of others.

From their warming up, he mentally put them into three categories: decent, could do well with a bit more training, and completely horrible (who would have thought humans could sound as toad-like? He was always discovering new things).

All of them had glaring issues, even if some hid them better than others. Only his Christine, did her own warm up as clearly and perfectly as she'd always sounded for him.

If only she managed not to break down when she sang, then most of the journey would be done.

And then it would not be in either of their hands, but those of the managers. And he'd sworn not to tip them.

One by one, the first women stood up and left to audition. Some butchered their arias from too many nerves. Some were fairly decent, and would make good ensemble people, even perhaps a Mallika. But when his Christine stepped inside, and started to sing, there would only be one Lakmé.

She heard them calling her name, and stepped into the room, not even seeing the faces of the three women and the man who would be hearing her.

Erik squeezed her hand once last time before he went to the piano to accompany her.

She told them her name, and what role she would be auditioning for.

And she started. Closed her eyes, at first, letting his advice wash over her again. She was with him. It was just like when they'd rehearsed, her and him at the piano, his gentle sound carrying her. She was Lakmé, young and hopeful and entranced.

She opened her eyes, and let her voice soar to the heavens. Power, control, purity, she had it all.

And they saw it. All of it. She never focused on them, as he'd instructed, and as soon as she'd opened her mouth, they didn't exist. There was only she, Lakmé.

She finished, and they applauded. Not the polite one they showered each candidate with, but seemingly something more real and warm.

He tried not to focus on his lover's beautiful sound, however difficult it was, but on the jury's reactions. Unless he was much mistaken, they were as spell-bound as he felt.

Their heartbeats had slowed, and their smell… The scent of excitement, of disbelief, of awe at witnessing something incredible.

He was very familiar with these.

When she finished, they applauded. It was not automatic, as they were forced to do with everyone who passed in front of them. This was enthusiastic, as much as they could, but still remain impartial and professional.

And he turned back his attention to her.

How lovely she was, pleased with her performance, well-dressed with the clothes he'd offered her.

She didn't dare let her joy explode right away, but she was smiling, and while he remained to the shadows, waiting for them to be alone again to let out his joy and extend his congratulations.

"Thank you for coming, Mademoiselle Nilsson. We will contact you in the coming week."

"Thank you for having me."

She had done it.

Vanquished her fears, and done the absolute best she could do.

No matter their decision, she would be satisfied with her performance, and that was enough.

For now.

She couldn't wait to be alone with him again, to know what he'd thought.

Quickly, they made their way back to her car. And in the darkness of the parking lot, deep within the Earth, she let out her breath.

"I did it! Erik, I did it!"

"You were exquisite," he told her.

She threw herself in his arms, the way she'd wanted to do all morning.

"Now, let's go back home. We need to celebrate."

The drive seemed endless, so impatient was she to let out her joy.

She sat down on the couch, and gestured for him to join her. Despite having taken his cloak and hat off, he still had his mask on, and she frowned when she saw it, looking up.

"Would you take it off, please? I can't see your face."

"Is it such a bad thing?"

She flipped her tongue.

"I love your face. I want to see your eyes better."

He chuckled and put it off, setting it down on her small table.

"Better?"

"Much better."

She reached up and pulled him back to her to kiss him. After the whirlwind of emotions for her, and the assault on his senses, he was glad to be back with his favorite scent in his nose, and her lovely heartbeat in his ears.

She was delighted, from how strong her scent was.

And he was a bit more passionate in his kiss, responding to her with new ardor.

She moaned into his mouth.

"Mmm. What's up with you, Erik?"

"I missed you. Am I not allowed to share my joy?"

"Oh please, share it some more. I will definitely not complain."

And the rest of the afternoon was spent furiously making out on her couch.

Of course, they had to stop just a little while, to get food into her system. Her stomach had been growling furiously.

"Do you know when I'll have the answers?" she asked as she cuddled in bed with him, after they'd managed to get off each other and sing some more. "They told me a week, to get call-backs."

"Yes, next week they will contact you for another audition."

He drew soothing circles on her hand, her head tucked under his chin, his other arm wrapped around her body.

"You speak as if it's done."

"Are you doubting yourself and your performance? You were exquisite. You must know that. None of them got even close to your level."

"I don't know. I just…"

"Hush, now, my dear. Sleep well, and we will talk about preparing the next audition on Wednesday."

"Good night, my love."

"Good night, my dear Christine."

He stayed in bed the whole night, right next to her, feeling her softness next to him, breathing in her scent, hearing her heartbeat, caressing her hair and her lovely skin.

Would he ever get enough of her, of how she felt like, of how he himself became when she was near, so close, so loving?

How distant the past felt, with his own Angel in his arms…

How far away the pain and the sorrow and the long gone dreams of reuniting with his old Christine.

* * *

The week was spent in a heartbeat. Filled with auditions, kisses (five hundred twenty three), and more singing.

At three more theatres, she'd sent her application and sung in front of a jury, and their responses ranging from dismissing to enthusiastic.

But today was the day the answer for the Bastille Opera would come.

And she was excited and dreading the call, and he felt it too, as attuned to her emotions as he was now.

He tried to soothe her with more singing, or reading books, but she was in such a state of nervous concentration she couldn't do anything but wait.

So he'd settled her in his lap, and caressed her hair, and they waited.

Her heart was fluttering like a bird in a cage, desperate to leave.

"You will get a heart attack if you go on like this, my dear."

She didn't even have the strength to tell him off, and answer his jokes, and that was the true sign she was nervous.

So he said nothing more, and waited.

Each time he thought he heard a noise, but it was never her phone. Any vibration in a circle of a mile around them? He thought it was the call.

Midday, and neither of them got up to prepare lunch. He knew she wasn't hungry, and wasn't in the mood to convince her to eat. They would celebrate, or not, later.

And then it arrived.

She jumped on the phone, fingers trembling, while he held her at the waist.

"Yes? Yes it is she. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye!"

He knew before she said another word.

"I got callbacks for Lakmé."

The rush of emotions overwhelming her was a hurricane, sweeping him up and all he was in her renewed excitement.

And he kissed her again.

"When is it?"

"Next week."

"Then we have plenty of time to prepare."

* * *

She got two more auditions, from other theatres, but focused both of their energy on the Bastille one.

They had five other candidates, still running for Lakmé.

Only two would get chosen, one as the main singer, and the other as an understudy, with an ensemble part. She needed one of those two spots.

The last one came, and they were three remaining, including her.

She did her best, and waited for the answer.

"Two chances out of three, my dear. It is a long process, nowadays, but it is fairer than most."

And then the last call. She hung up.

"I got the ensemble. Lakmé went to Carlotta Guidicelli. You must know her, she's a famous Italian soprano. She's performed hundreds of times around the world."

He was frowning.

"It is still what we hoped for. Don't be disappointed on my behalf," she pleaded.

"I am not disappointed. I am enraged."

"It is a foot in the industry. I will show them what I can do."

"Yes, you will. I have no doubts about your abilities."

* * *

He was infuriated. An Ensemble part? For his Christine? How dared they!

Still, he knew it was no use getting angry. And she was right. Being in an ensemble meant she would get to be seen, be known by her peers. He'd done everything he could. Now he could only help her rehearse and let her do her own work. And he knew deep down she had the makings of a great Diva. It was only a matter of time, now.

And wasn't time all that he had?


	23. Erik & Christine XVI - Theatre Life

_Happy reading! I hope you enjoy their new life in Paris and the theatre life!_

* * *

***-*Erik & Christine XVI - Theatre Life**

She made her way, two days later to the great Bastille Opera house. A beautiful place, filled with a buzzing of activity she'd known her whole life.

They were preparing the new sets, designing the new costumes. She could hear the musicians getting ready in a distant, well soundproofed room. And she met the other performers. Some of them were known to her, as it had during her auditions. She was glad to meet most of them.

Except the other woman playing Lakmé. While her confidante, Regina, sounded like the sweetest middle aged lady she'd ever heard, Carlotta Giudicelli was a fierce woman, a tornado of red curls, who took one look at her, and didn't acknowledge her further. She knew her by name, and had been rather excited to meet her. Ten years ago, she'd been one of the greatest, most courted voices of the Opera world. Now, though, it seemed fame had gotten to her head.

But she would wait before forming a judgement. At the very least, she would show her she was deserving her place here, even perhaps the Diva's.

Rehearsals went underway, and it was soon easy to lose herself in the joy of performing again. Even the small role she'd been given was a joy to perform, and it allowed her to sneak into other departments and help others.

Of course, it allowed her to show off her voice as well.

The first time she opened her mouth, they all stopped what they'd been doing to listen to her.

And that was when the first troubles began. Carlotta threw her a look of utmost contempt.

Still it didn't deter her. She was doing the absolute best she could, and it was mostly enough. Even better, she had time off to practice on her own with Erik.

Each day spent with him felt like a fairytale. He was the most attentive, sweetest of boyfriends. Treated her like a queen, and loved her so much it always brought tears to her eyes.

Still, he never got more physical than a few kisses on her neck and caresses down her back. And the tension, while delicious, was beginning to drive her mad. She wanted him, physically, and she couldn't understand why after three entire months he still fought their desire.

* * *

One night, she couldn't stand it anymore, so she asked him.

"Don't you desire me, Erik?"

He was taken aback.

"Why would you think that?"

"We haven't made love yet. I still haven't seen your entire body. You know it would mean the world to me if you showed yourself to me."

He remained silent, carefully assessing her question. Of course he'd wanted her. The connection that had been present since the beginning, this ache for her flesh, it had nearly driven him mad, in the few months he'd courted her. But despite these urges, he was still refusing to move past that point. He was terribly afraid of losing control, and show him the true monster inside. If he ever indulged in these desires, what else would come back as well?

Safer then, to keep this relationship chaste and tender. But how could he tell her that, without alienating her?

"It is not my body, my dear. I… I do not want you to see me losing my control. Bad things happened when I surrendered to my desires."

She sighed, softly, caressing his arm.

"I thought we'd crossed that bridge, though, hadn't we? I know you. You've told me how you were at your worst. How can you believe making love will turn you into someone I could not love?"

He had no answers.

"Erik, my love. Can we try? At least, try? If it's too difficult, at any point, we can stop. You know we will. But… Why deny us this other chance at strengthening our connection?"

And then, she whispered in his ear:

"I have so often dreamt of being _yours_…"

He saw red. And black. And white. Her voice had gone straight to a part of his body he'd always kept in check, and his fangs were rejoicing.

She felt it, and the little vixen smirked.

"You know you want _it_…"

Her lips curled around the "t", and he thought he would be scorched from her fire. She was no longer the bright and warm light he'd kept at his side. She was a goddess, sublime and as blinding as a Supernova. And who was he to deny her _anything_?

He was powerless to resist.

So he surrendered to her.

He slowly drew his hand to her cheek, caressing her lips, and when she shivered from his contact, he smiled and kissed her.

Gently, at first, and then more passionately. His hands began exploring her body, as she found the buttons of his mandarin overcoat.

Touching more than his hands, the skin of his arms, so soft and pale to her eyes, no hairs at all, but covered in small scars, brought back a fierce determination in her. He had never been loved. Had grown so used to her touch, he'd let himself be his truest self with her. And now, his scars appeared in a different way to her eyes.

But she didn't care. She would kiss them one by one, learn the map of these small memories of the man she loved, the signs of the life he'd led before. Each was a piece of his story, and though he'd nearly not survived, still he was here, with her.

And nothing made her happier.

She finally divested him of his clothes, throwing back the covers to have a better look at him. He had only eyes for her, and the perfection of her body. Her curves, her breasts, so soft and supple and her smile, her ankles, her round stomach, everywhere he looked was only her, and she was exquisite.

"Do you like what you see?" she softly asked, a hint of fear in her voice, masked by her usual playfulness.

How would she ever believe that he didn't? No matter how she looked, he would always love her. And here, she had no reason to be self-conscious. By any standards, she was a beauty.

"You are perfection."

She smiled softly, and kissed him again. Their fingers traveled around, learning each inch of skin, until they met their respective goals.

Both moaned at the new sensations, pleasure overwhelming them.

Locked in each other's eyes, they spent a long time just learning what made the other tick, what made her breathe a little deeper, what made her heart miss a step, what made him tremble and fall apart in her hands and mouth.

For hours, and hours, they lost themselves in this languid exploration, like embers in the night, slowly but so, so delicious.

He didn't last long, but he made up for it with an impressive vigor, barely spent he was ready to go again. And she let herself fall under the spell of his lips, his fingers.

She had never doubted the power and skill of his long, elegant fingers.

The things they did to her…

Her own would never be enough again.

Still, as he's said, he wasn't ready yet to go all the way. But from their proximity, skin against skin, it was more than enough for the both of them.

They would have all the time in the world to explore further, and join their bodies even closer.

* * *

Afterwards, their days were just the same as before, and yet something different had definitely happened. They were even closer, their song linking them even deeper.

Each night, several times a day, when they were together, they were joining their bodies and their voices. It was so new to him, but he found himself enjoying it, learning it, craving it even more than he had anticipated. Even Music, his great love, paled in comparison to this shared love.

And his opera grew, under her both gentle and passionate inspiration. Most of it was now written, and he needed only the ending to be added. He loved it. It was so much better than his Don Juan Triumphant, better written, better scored, and the story was one he would never have thought he had in him. A story of love and redemption. And Her story, too. The story of the two women who had changed his life.

Christine loved her days at the theatre, and soon tech week arrived, to prepare the opening night, a week away.

She had grown close to Regina, the woman playing Lakmé's confidante, even though she spent most of her time with Carlotta.

Once, she had been feeling under the weather, and Christine had had the opportunity to replace her.

Of course, the Diva had not liked it.

She endured her cruel words of inadequacies and no talent, bracing herself against her assault. She knew only her jealousy was speaking.

* * *

One night, she was late leaving the theatre, after having discussed some thoughts with the orchestra director (courtesy of Erik, with a few suggestions on improving to perfection), and she heard a woman cry.

The theatre was nearly deserted at this time, and she didn't know who it could be.

Intrigued, and wanting to make sure everything was fine, she followed the noise.

It was Carlotta.

Her beautiful, usually perfect make up was stained with her tears, her hair down from her beautiful up do.

"Come to gloat, little toad?"

That had been her nickname from the first time she'd met her.

"I just wanted to make sure nobody was hurt."

"I am fine. What are you doing here so late?"

"Just discussing things with the Maestra, that's all. What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Rehearsing!"

"Fine, I hope it goes well."

She turned to leave.

"Wait. Christine, wait."

She stilled and looked back on the diva.

"If you need to talk…," Christine began.

"I've hated you since the first moment I saw you."

Christine stiffened. Being kind was one thing, but she didn't like being insulted for free.

"If you have nothing more to say," she said softly, "then I'll leave you."

"You are everything I was, everything I used to be. You are talented, young, beautiful. Your whole life ahead of you, and a great career awaits. Mine is almost finished. I am fifty."

The Diva's despair touched her. No matter what, her core was compassion, and she hated seeing people in pain.

"And it is your greatest age, signora. It is up to you to go on with your career. You look great and your voice is good. You have experience and strong acting, everybody knows you. I looked up to you, when I started learning. I saw you as Pamina, and thought you were the greatest singer in the entire world. You excelled in every role you played. Nothing needs to change. You just need to find the roles where you feel the best."

"Who knew such a little toad could croak so sweetly."

"Find back your joy in performing. This is the only thing that matters in the end."

The Diva stood, and nodded.

"Thank you for your kind words, now go off jumping somewhere else, little toad. I need to rehearse some more."

But her smile was small, yet sincere.

* * *

The next days, the nickname was still there, but the bite had disappeared. The Diva appeared more relaxed, her singing was shining once more, and the whole company performed better as a result.

One evening, after a particularly good session, she was leaving, her heart full of the beautiful sounds and the emotions she'd felt, when Carlotta found her in her dressing room.

"The Prima Donna's not supposed to mingle with the ensemble, remember?" Christine said gently.

"I just wanted to say thank you. For the other day."

"You're welcome."

And with another mostly small smile, she was gone.

* * *

"I can't understand the depth of your compassion, my dear," Erik was telling her when she came back. "It truly knows no bounds, and I am awed."

"She's struggling. I just wanted to help. She's been my idol for many years."

"Still, it is to your credit to forgive her."

"The system is like that. It is always harder for women, when we age."

"I shall hope it does not treat you the same."

"As long as you're here with me, loving me, and I can perform in roles I like, I'll be happy. I don't need crowds of fans."

"You will have them too, in your time."

"Will you be there tomorrow night?"

"How could I ever miss my own Diva's opening night and debut?"

She smiled and kissed him, very quickly dissolving in a tangle of limbs.

* * *

Opening night, and the thrill and anticipation of knowing all of their work would finally come together at last.

She was in costume, and could hear the orchestra prepping slowly, and the shuffling of skirts and hundreds of people getting seated on the other side of the curtain.

The stress was rising, but so was the energy around them.

In her dressing room, Carlotta was still warming up, the familiar ahahahs a soothing sound to her own fear.

But she was ready. This would be fun.

The crowd went silent. The orchestra started playing, and Carlotta entered, under the beautiful lights. Soon, it would be her time, to step on the stage, to do what she'd done hundred times before. A small role, but it mattered.

There.

She was there.

Her voice was ringing with the others, and she got her own line to sing.

And it was over too quickly.

Soon, she was bowing, at the end of Act 4, along with the rest of the cast members.

And joining them, afterwards, for the opening party.

But first, she returned to her dressing room, shared with other girls of the ensemble, to discover an envelope and a card, and a single red rose.

_"__Congratulations on your Debut. You were the sun in a sea of stars._

_I shall be requesting the pleasure of your company after the party,_

_Have fun, my dear,_

_With love, always,_

_Your Erik._

It brought tears to her eyes, and she hid them quickly as she prepared for the party. As usual, her pendant with his words never left her.

A night of dancing and drinking and laughing was always a wondrous event, but in her case, she was still glad to leave the club.

"Need assistance, Miss?"

She would have known his voice anywhere, and settled her arm on his, the well-dressed gentleman covered in a fine black cloak and smart hat.

"I could have come home on my own, you know."

"And leave you walk alone at this time? I feel safer accompanying you."

"You didn't have to."

"But I wanted to."

"Then I'm glad you're here."

She held him closer, and they made their way over to the apartment.

Knowing she'd be tired, and she was, he'd just made a small dinner for one, candle lights, red petals on the table.

"To your debut."

"Thank you."

And after dinner, they spent a lot more time reaping their just desserts.

It could never get too sweet.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed this new Carlotta! I'd like to think in a different world, they could have been friends. But that is surely just my optimistic self talking. Still, with Christine's kindness, I'm sure she'd be the kind of woman to support everyone and anyone, and to see through fear. _


	24. Erik & Christine XVII - True Debut

***-* Erik & Christine XVII - Diva Debut**

Then it was a whirlwind of performances, and every time she grew more addicted to all the lights and the sounds and the delight of the audience.

It was her last night, and Carlotta was sick. It had been brewing for the whole last week, and with her entire heart she'd hoped the Diva would get better. But tonight, as her voice had all but disappeared this morning, it seemed impossible she could do her part.

"I guess you will have to do it, little toad. Congrats on finally performing, the rehearsals won't be useless after all."

Her first instinct was to cry out in joy and call Erik to share her excitement. But she swallowed it and instead wished the diva well.

"Thank you. I do hope you'll get better soon."

"Now off you go, get ready. I won't have you ruin the last night for everyone."

Thrilled, she nodded before she made her way to the famed Diva's dressing room. She had been here often enough, before, but this would be her first time alone. Well. Her dresser would help her with the dresses, the wigs and the make-up.

But still, for this night, it belonged to her.

She couldn't wait to tell Erik all about it. And yet she refrained from doing so, hoping he would arrive and be surprised to find her center stage, singing the songs they had both so lovingly prepared, back in Provence.

She was ready, turned back into Lakmé, after her first fittings over a month ago. The anticipation was there.

She took a deep breath, cradling in her hands the medallion with the card that never left her now, keeping it under her bodice, close to her heart, and made her way down to the stage. On her path, a short walk but every step left her feeling both in a daze and completely aware of everything, in a deep concentration phase, she received all the "break a leg" from her fellow cast and crew members, especially from the understudies who had for some never gotten to perform solo.

The cheers of the audience quietened. The orchestra started. Then she stepped on the stage, letting her clear soprano voice rise and soar to the sky.

Here, in her mind's eye, she was that woman in India. The distinction between her and the role were irrelevant. She wore no costume but her own clothes. This was her hair, this was her song, her heart's words.

The music belonged to her as much as she herself belonged to it.

Over there, the audience had gone silent, a great calm over the stalls and the upper levels as she finished her song, until a torrent, a flood of applause swept her up.

The rest of the night went on, and she was bowing. She hardly realized it was over, still rejoicing from the thrill of the spectators' clapping and shouting in her veins, fueling her talent and acting like it was the last time she would ever be on stage.

She received a long, very warm and very loud standing ovation. And she could feel him now. The compass in her heart pointed to him, in his now favored box, so close to the stage she could almost distinguish his mask.

As usual, he kept to the darkness, but she knew he had loved her.

The curtain closed, and she felt as if coming down from a high. Oxygen was hard to come by, it seemed, and she felt dizzy. Backstage, she turned away from her loving fellow cast members.

"Thank you so much, everyone, but I need a few minutes of quiet, and then I will join you."

They nodded, and went on their way to their dressing rooms to get changed.

She returned to hers, closing the door behind her. In the quiet space, she heard nothing, only her deep breaths, and the rustle of her skirt as she sat down at her vanity.

He was there, and put his hands on her shoulders. Tonight, he was dead. For who would ever have believed he could feel like he had that night? Her performance had been the greatest thing he'd ever witnessed.

No questions asked.

No doubts.

He was there. His hands on her shoulders.

"You have given the world its most precious Angel, my dear. Your whole soul. And there is no fairer gift."

"I take it you liked me?"

"Every other artist pales against your perfection."

She was blushing.

"Perfection?"

"Would I lie, my dear?"

"Never."

He still had his mask, harsh against the lights of her mirror. But his eyes shone the brightest she'd ever seen them, their gold so pretty and intense, she wanted to paint the world in their warmth.

From a hidden pocket in his cloak, he produced a small bouquet of red and white roses.

"Congratulations again on your true Diva Debut, my dearest."

They smelled good, and were made from the freshest flowers, but it was not flowers she needed right now.

"Come now, Erik, and kiss me."

She got up and lovingly took off the mask. How his smile lit up the room, she would never tire of that. Then she rose on her tip toes and brought his lips to hers.

Still a bit dizzy from the stage, this kiss was both her doorway back to earth, and a continuation of her high. He was intoxicating, drove her mad with want and desire, her heart close to bursting from how much love she had for him. Of course, it was still so very new, so dear and precious.

He took her closer into his arms, caressing her back in the lovely dress she wore, and soon passion threatened them both.

"No. Not here," he murmured. "You have your closing party."

"Will you leave now when I need you so?"

"I shall tend to _all _your desires later, my angel, but for now, your loving fans await you and so do your friends. Even Carlotta will be wondering where you went."

"Very well."

One last kiss, and he helped her get ready for the party, zipping her up.

"Now off you go, my love. I shall be waiting for you when you leave."

"I love you."

"And I love you too."

One smile, another stolen kiss, and she was out of the room. Joining her friends at the stage door, where a crowd had formed, desperate to meet her. Thunderous cries and screams of joy greeted her.

"Miss Nilsson! MISS NILSSON! CHRISTINE!"

She smiled, fear and delight and wonder all battling inside her heart, and started chatting, posing for selfies, signing autographs, (she had no pen yet, how could she have forgotten?) They'd loved her, and what would do next? Would she audition for the new Magic Flute production in the Garnier? Or perhaps the Faust one?

She tried to answer as best she could, and finally arrived to the end of the line, tired but with stars in her eyes and a strange new warmth in her heart. Validation, finally.

_See that, Dad? This is for you, too. I made it._

She joined her friends and left for the club where they had all planned to be partying.

Carlotta had waited for them, a long scarf over her nose and neck.

"Ah! My little toad! I hoped to find you there. We need to talk."

She took her arm and led her away from the party, in a deserted corner.

"First I wanted to say Brava! You were amazing, and you filled my place very well."

"Thank you, signora."

"Then, I must ask you this. The Garnier plans to do a production of The Magic Flute in three months and the auditions are starting next week. But I have been offered the role of the Night Queen, and thought of you to play Pamina. Your voice would suit her well, I believe."

What?

"You told them about me?"

"Well, after tonight, people are going to want you. I really appreciated our working together, and if we can do something else… As a token of my well wishes, and a thank you."

"I'd be honored, signora."

"Then it is settled. I shall text you the details and email you the rest of the information tomorrow. Until then, little toad. Enjoy the party!"

Then she was gone, to laugh and dance in the arms of her beloved tenor.

After that it was a blur of drinking and dancing and laughing, exchanging jokes and well wishes for the future.

Her heart felt full. Thrilled, beating fast and a smile and laughter around her throat, never leaving her.

She was alive, and she felt alive, as though finally being where she was meant to be. Completion.

When she was too tired to go on, as the night wore on, she said her goodbyes, knowing she would miss all those people, but secure in the knowledge that while the theatre family could be harsh and petty, it was still her family of heart, and they shared all good things and bad things. Together, forever. One team. She would work with them again.

But now she had a handsome masked man to return to.

For as soon as she stepped out of the club, he was there, cloaked and masked, holding out his arm.

"May I accompany Mademoiselle Nilsson to her home?"

"Please do, good monsieur."

He smiled, and she reached up to kiss him, grasping his masked cheek. It was soft and tender, but underneath this sweetness, she could feel her heart close to bursting, and more wicked delights to come.

Then he took her hand and they returned home.


	25. Erik & Christine XVIII - True Love

***-* Erik & Christine XVIII - True Love**

"Are you very tired?" he asked her softly as he closed the door behind her.

She had been, a little, when she'd left the club, but his presence, his energy and the fresh air of their walk had rekindled some of her strength.

"That depends of what you are planning on doing. We have all morning tomorrow…" she whispered, taking off his cloak and mask.

He stood unmoving, letting her do as she willed.

Slowly, she undid the buttons of his beautiful black jacket, and put it off his shoulders.

He was shivering.

"I will defer to your wishes, my love."

His voice was husky and so delicious, bringing forth goosebumps of her skin, and the most wonderful heat over her entire body.

She smiled, looking up at the eyes of the man she loved more than anything, caressing his lips, and reached up on her tiptoes to whisper:

_"Take me to bed."_

She could feel him down there, pressing against her body, rise up hard and strong. He moaned, both growl and whimper, and in a swift movement, he had swept her in his arms, and strode to the bedroom.

To hell with all his restraints. To hell with waiting.

She needed him, she wanted him, and he was exhausted of waiting. He was ready, too. The enchanting temptress would get her wish.

And he couldn't wait to finally be joined with her. Shattering the last barrier between them.

She laughed, a clear ringing of bells, that reached deep into his heart, and he kissed her, again, lavishly, passionately, hungry for more.

Both of them were.

He put her on the bed, barely stopping to kiss her while she threw her hair to one side and allowed him to unzip her dress.

In a few seconds, he was as bare as she was, and she grasped his shoulders to bring him closer to her, all over her.

A hand down her body, and he found her slick with arousal. What pretty songs she sang whenever he touched her. What note would she reach tonight, as he played her, letting her reach her completion with his skilled fingers?

She was sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, her hands tightened on his hair as she breathed sweet nonsense to spur him on.

"How can you leave me so unsatisfied, my love? Please, please come… I need you now. Now!"

As fierce as she could be delicate, she reached down and brought his mouth back to her lips, letting her hand grasp his length, stroking him as she knew he loved.

It was his turn to grow pleading.

"Please don't toy with me, my love. I will not last if you continue your delicious caresses…"

She smiled, a divine light in her eyes, and stopped her movements, coming to rest her hand on his heart. He was warm, his skin so soft.

"I love you, Erik."

"And I love you, my dearest Christine. My love. My angel."

Then, as he kissed her, he slowly, so slowly, so agonizingly slowly, drove his length inside her.

Thankful tonight more than ever that his heart had stopped beating, for this would have killed him a thousand times over.

They both sighed, and stayed joined, unmoving, just savoring this moment. She held him tighter against her, her nails finding support in the soft skin of his back. He barely registered the scratch.

Even in his more extraordinary dreams, he could never have expected or imagined how good it would feel. He'd dreamt about it for so long, had wished for a bride, for love, for completion for so long, he'd thought it would forever be out of his reach.

Now, he held the most precious, most beautiful creature in the entire world, the whole of time and space contained in her heart, and her body was one with his, the way his soul had been entwined with hers for a few months now.

He was no longer a vampire, held by his ravenous hunger and his fear of the sun. He was her lover, unmade and remade in her love, her passion, her tenderness.

Nothing existed but this, the two of them in her small bed, yet it would always be more than enough. He didn't need the world, when she was all there was. She was Music and Goddess and Love and Life. And she had bestowed upon him _everything_.

With his old Christine, he'd been reborn, given a new chance at life.

Here, with his angel in his arms, he was grown and the man he'd wanted to be. Exactly where he wanted to be.

He started to sing, softly, in her ear. The song he hadn't showed her yet. The song of their duet, in his opera. The climax of the piece. It began as a solo, sweet promises of everlasting love.

Just when she thought she'd finally come back from some of her high, he started to sing, and envelopped her in his familiar cocoon of softness, layers of music and love, and she was done for, again. His voice crept into the deepest, more protected corners of her soul, and it was like coming home.

Being at home.

Slowly, he began moving against her, as his voice twirled and purred against her ears. It was too much. Too many feelings. She was dying from all of it, from every sensation of his skin against hers, from him, so big and hard inside her, his warm breath against her neck, and she clutched his arms more desperately, lost in this hurricane, as she sang her pleasure too, sharing this duet with him, though her voice was higher and uncontrolled.

His hand came down between her thighs to help drive her over the edge, and they tumbled down, down, down, together.

She exhaled, too spent to move.

He couldn't move either, every bone trembling from their joining.

She was tingling all over. Breathing hard, if she was managing to breathe at all.

This was no glimpse of heaven. It was a fall straight inside its core, and she had lived it, inhaled it, for a time. Minutes? Hours? She couldn't say.

But he was around her still, gently kissing her face, her cheeks, her lips, her brow, tugging her hair from her eyes, and it was heaven. He might have been a vampire, but to her, he was her angel, come to ravish her and show her what Love was like.

Beauty, Love and Music intermingled.

She fell asleep, her legs curled around him.

He had no desire to move, when he was blessedly warm and light, his heart at peace, from that strangest revelation: he was loved. And this was the perfect moment, at her triumph, their shared triumph. His student and perfect woman living her dream.

Thanks to him.

Still, while he'd never expected anything, this was more than he'd ever hoped for. He wouldn't change a thing. Change a single minute of hurt, of pain and humiliation and despair, if it all brought him to this. This amazing, talented, caring, strong, sublime Goddess falling in love with him.

"Thank you," he whispered out loud, letting his slow exhale carry the words to the two women he'd loved, his dead Angel and the modern beauty he held against his heart, dead as it may also be.

"For everything."

He would always remember this night, even if it never happened again. But even more, he would always cherish the morning afterwards, as she slowly awakened in his arms, and burrowed herself closer against him, her arms holding him as if he could disappear at any moment.

There was only tenderness in his heart. Nothing but words of love and devotion in his mouth. Nothing but love in his brain. Duets and gentle lullabies in his ears, tingling his fingers to show her exactly how much she meant to him.

What was thirst? Hunger? When she was breathing, her heart beating so gently against his dead skin. When she was smelling so great, her scent intoxicating, not like the greatest meal he'd ever found, but like the sweetest rose, the most perfect blend of soft and light and fierceness at the last note. He was drunk on her perfume. Hunger and thirst meant nothing. Were nothing compared to all that she was.

She was stirring to life, against him, her fingers clinging to the soft hairs of his chest. He had not much, but she seemed to treasure each one.

"You're so soft," she whispered in the dreamy voice of sleepiness.

"Smell so good," as she brushed her lips against his skin, so innocently, so delicately.

He was shivering again, a flood of tenderness filling every scar and stretch of his skin and each corner of his ugly soul.

Something akin to a protective instinct he'd never truly felt awakened in his soul. He would do anything, wreck his soul and the entire world to keep this treasure of a woman from being hurt.

But so far she hadn't needed him to. She'd dealt with that Carlotta woman with the strength of her compassion, and her kindness had been rewarded, as she'd told him during their walk back to her flat, before passion had swept over them both.

She would get one of the most sought-after positions of Paris under the wing of the fiercest Soprano of the Opera World. And she had shown the world already she was meant to be on stage.

Perfect. This was truly the most perfect day of his life. Seeing her appear on that stage, lit from the lights and her smile, hearing her voice in that great temple of Music, from his box where he'd been watching her night after night, finally seeing her where she was meant to be… He'd been overwhelmed from the tide of feelings he'd felt. Never before had he been so annoyed at not being able to release his emotions in a good cry. She'd deserved every tear shed in that house.

Everyone would remember that performance.

She was already in the books. Making history.

They remained in bed for the better part of the day, before hunger drove her from it. Or rather, drove him to cook her something.

Nothing much was said, for no words were necessary today. The feelings they shared were so strong, so tangible they filled the entire space.

She was floating, in a cloud too high to be reached. Too happy to come down, and keep from smiling.

She'd never been so happy in her entire life.

After her meal, she threw her arms around him, and they sang together, rehearsing the new parts of the role she would be taking on in a few weeks.

What would she give to be able to share the stage with him? To let the whole of Paris hear how glorious he was? How entranced she became when his voice joined with hers? Her heart was full of those questions, but that was a gift she would keep inside her, and try to fulfill. If it took her entire life, and a whole network of favors, she would manage it one day.

She didn't know yet which role she would most like him to take on, for no matter which, he was bound to be perfect.

But now that she'd had her own perfect debut, it was time for him to try and be on the stage where he'd be fantastic. Where he should have been from the very beginning, if life had been fairer.

It wasn't, but a selfish part of her was glad of it, because otherwise she would never even have met him, much less gotten to fall in love with him, and be loved by him in return.

Fate had brought him to her, and for that, she would always be thankful.


	26. Erik & Christine XIX - Christmas is Here

_Thank you so much for sticking with me! More fluff to come, before some new adventures 3 Happy reading!_

* * *

***-* Erik & Christine XIX - Christmas is here**

Their first Christmas together. It used to be a favorite moment of the year for her. When her father was alive, they would spend time just the two of them, heading down to their house in Provence, made a fire in their big chimney, and she would sing as he played the violin, just the two of them, good food and the warmth of their love. It lasted a week, but these were some of the most cherished memories she had of them together.

She would watch the snow fall from their roof, covering the fields all around, see the small frozen river in her backyard. Hear how silent everything was, smell the freshness of the air.

Listen to the song of the wind in the leafless trees.

Her father would go and bring back a huge pine tree they would decorate together, and a tiny Angel figure on top of it. Surrounded in blankets, they would sing Christmas Carols and silly songs, and make an entire week worthy of food. The gifts they'd exchanged would never be much, be they were always thoughtful, and that had always sufficed.

Now, after he'd died, she'd stopped celebrating. What use was there? So she stayed in her flat, back in the big City, all miserable and crying, too numb to leave her bed, not noticing the day had passed when she dragged herself over on the 26th. The second year was better, but not by much. She drank a bit too much and stayed in bed, her eyes still half closed and red from the tears. She couldn't remember the third.

Now, her fourth year after he'd died, she wasn't alone anymore. For some reason, she hadn't even thought of discussing with him, as if by an unspoken agreement he would always be there with her.

She had time before the new rehearsals started, in January. Two full weeks she could devote to their Christmas holidays.

But would they stay here? Go back to her house? Or to his, where she'd spent most of the summer anyway?

She would have to discuss their plans.

So that Monday morning, after the last show, she was dozing in bed, her head over his chest, as he playing with her hair.

"Do you have any ideas what to do on Christmas day? For the holidays?"

"Have you any wishes for what you would like to do?"

"No… Perhaps… Go back down to Provence, and have our Christmas there. Would you like to come to my home?"

It struck her as she said those words he'd never been inside. He'd come to dry her tears on her roof, but had never entered. Just like here, he would barely fit in her tiny bed. But somehow, rekindling her childhood Christmas habits meant going back there.

His manor was grand and beautiful, but didn't quite fit her idea of what Christmas should look like. It was a time to be cozy and close and warm.

"Of course I would, if you'll have me."

"I used to spend it with my father. After he died… I…"

"I'm honored you wish to spend it with me."

She clutched him tighter, and he drove his fingers on long soothing circles on her back.

And that was it.

* * *

The following evening saw them both driving down to Provence, and it was a bit different from their last trip. She kept tugging at his hand, over the crutch. Christmas music on the radio, both singing along to the tunes. He didn't know them very well, but as usual, he was a fast learner, and by the end of the first hour, he knew them all so well she'd have sworn he'd sung them all his life.

Slowly, the landscapes changed, from the roads and flat fields to the rolling hills, and small mountains in the distance.

She was back home.

"You have to invite me in, you know."

"Is that rule true? You never told me that."

"It is only proper Human behavior, isn't it? I want to do this right."

She smiled, and took his hand as she unlocked her door.

"Welcome to my home."

She had tidied it a bit before leaving for Paris, bringing back her suitcase of clothes and other essentials. She'd always been one to pack light when she traveled. So of course, now, the house was a bit tidier than it'd been when she'd come back last summer.

So many things had happened since then.

She was definitely not the same person anymore. The core was the same, but she had grown.

She led him to the center of the living room, observing him as he took in her home, every piece of her childhood shown and bare to his gaze. It wasn't so different from her flat back in Paris, and yet somehow it was.

A hidden part of her, the place where she'd fallen in love with him.

He looked at the photographs on the mantel, the trinkets displayed here and there.

"It is a beautiful home."

"Thank you."

He saw the old violin her father had left there, one that had been in their family for generations. Her father had used a more modern version, for concerts and performances, in his professional life, but this one had remained her, for their holidays. When he used it, here, it was always a treat. And old fiddle, with a long history, made for long winter nights, and warm summer evenings outdoor.

"It was my father's. It's been in our family for generations. You can play it if you want."

"Do you play it?"

She had never told him, and it seemed strange that he'd never asked, knowing her father's love for the instrument, but somehow he'd always presumed she was a vocalist first and foremost.

"It's been a while, and I always had a fondness for my voice, and how easy I trained it, but… I guess I can."

"Will you?"

"I'm not sure…"

"As always, my dear. You know I won't judge you. But if you wish to try, you should. Move on past your fears."

Perhaps that was one of the things she liked best about him, how he always challenged her, made her think through anything. How he pushed her to be her best self, to move past her fears. He was never hard or judging, but her shadow, her way forward.

He had been her voice, her teacher, her best friend, her way past her grief. He had pushed her to open up, to see beyond what she thought she could do. Had opened the doors of her dreams.

Perhaps she could claim one more thing that had been left in the past and the shadow of her father's.

His violin.

Slowly, with gentle hands, he took it from his casket, and delicately held it over to her.

She could still refuse, she saw it in his eyes.

He would understand. He always did.

But she could hear the gentle sound of the strings blowing towards her, the ghost of his melody whispering to her, lighting her soul with wanting. With wishing.

_Would you? Will you?_

Haunting sounds.

With trembling fingers, she took it and raised it against her shoulder, setting her chin against the polished wood. The movement felt so natural, fitting so well against her tiny frame, she exhaled a great sigh.

She closed her eyes, brought her bow on the strings, and played a long, resonant note.

It was as if some other part of her had been unleashed, and set free. Her singing had been one way to express herself, to set her emotions on fire, to express what she could never tell, to become a thousand different things.

But this was different still.

This was a connection, profound with a material as old as he was. Older than her, than this house.

It was a duet. Taming the instrument, letting it trust her to become more than the sum of its parts. In the sound, she could feel her father playing, and her grandmother, and all the others in her family who had played that same melody for hundreds of years.

In that tune, a simple, old Swedish folk song she'd known in many different forms, there was the gentle way of life she'd always known and longed for. The sound of the sun over the meadows, the water in the river lazily running through the fields of wild flowers. The fjords and ice glaciers whispering their ancient and wild and untamable power.

It was nature itself, bound to her, binding her to the circle of life and death and all of her family members who had released the violin's music.

The movements were coming back to her, the sound haunting and vibrant.

She stopped, out of breath, to look at him.

* * *

He thought she was glowing. From the first note she took, from the first hint of melody, he thought he'd need to sit down.

She was again speaking to him, evoking the wildest things in his mind.

Her playing was good. Brilliant. She was transporting him to places he'd never been, felt the sun on his skin, and the caress of the wind. Smelled the brine of the northern shores where her ancestors had played with this very instrument.

In her melody was a story of love and family, of travel and roots long gone but still there, long abandoned but never lost.

She was here, but her spirit was elsewhere, and through music, he could follow her in her journeys, read her story as it was being unveiled to him, in things he'd never asked her yet.

It was all there, plain as day, for who could understand her language. And of course, he could understand her.

It was a feeling he'd never felt before, not even with his Angel. His old Christine had been an Angel, a wonderful, beautiful, kind and compassionate woman who had saved him, who first out of everyone else, had spoken his language.

But he had not understood her. He'd hurt her. Driven her away.

This Christine was there, now. She knew of his past, but had accepted it was past. He had never hurt her, was a part of her as much as she was a part of him. And through her music, now, he could feel how she was inviting him, again, to join her, to unite his voice, his violin, any instrument he played, to understand her.

To be there, with her.

To be her anchor and tell her story the same way she did.

He'd thought she was a great singer. He knew she loved stories.

But she was a master storyteller, as well, weaving her stories around him as a witch her spells.

And she was taking him with her, on her journey to the past.

Her past.

Now, as night went on and she kept on playing, her eyes unfocused, yet acutely aware of her surroundings and his presence, he could only stay still, watching in his mind's eyes her inner world enfold, as perfectly and brightly as if he'd read her soul.

She stopped.

He blinked, unable to breathe, to move, to release a single sigh.

It was like stepping away from a good dream, or a trance. Never quite sure where you were and what had happened.

Finally, as she looked at him with her love and longing in her eyes, he whispered:

"I understand you."

And it was all she needed to hear.

She set it down, gently, and threw herself in his arms. One other door broken down, one root regrown.

She was slowly but surely blossoming a little more each day.

Healing.

* * *

They went to sleep, in her small bed, and he was growling they'd need to acquire another.

"Oh, my dear. Aren't we cozy in here? Especially since you don't sleep."

"It is for your health and good sleep, my love."

"We will, later. Now let's just enjoy how near we are."

So far, the small bed had not proved too inconvenient.

* * *

The next day, they set out to prepare Christmas. He'd called his usual Seer to help him get groceries, and they'd prepared the tree and decorations. They hadn't needed much, but she'd insisted on putting her old Christmas ornaments.

Old things from her father, and mother, and grandparents too.

He'd brought a tree, huge and heavy with the wildest green branches, and they'd put plenty of red and white and gold garlands.

And at the top, a small white and gold Angel with a harp.

Their private joke.

On the morning of the 24th, after the last minute preparations, they'd spent the day cooking, just for her, of course, but he'd loved it. Small but delightful meals.

Of course, they'd set up their gifts underneath the Christmas tree, with cards accompanying them.

Now, they could retreat to the living room, the scent of the turkey filling the air.

He was on her lap, for a change, as she caressed his soft hair, and they were listening to an old classical album. Music would never stop living inside of them, would never leave them.

She sang along, and he'd closed his eyes, listening to her heart, his nostrils filled with the smell of her happiness. Today, it was cold snow, sleepy forests and pine trees. Earthy and fresh, with a hint of the rose he loved.

"Such a perfect day," she whispered.

"Best of all, with you. Best Christmas ever for me."

"The best in four years, for sure."

Her sadness would always be there, in some way, even though he'd tried his best to cheer her up.

But shaking away her grief would take many, many long years.

They went to eat, and he looked at her as she ate, and he'd had a glass of blood to accompany her, as she'd told him she wasn't freaked out by that.

In her mind, though, it was the first hint of something she'd been thinking about for a few months, as her relationship with him intensified and solidified. One day, if she wanted to go on with him, she would have to decide what to do with her own human life. To go on, and die, or ask him to change her, and become a vampire herself. That would have more implications than she was ready to discuss or think about. And of course, he would have to agree.

Being stuck with her for the rest of eternity, that wasn't something hastily chosen.

Every meal he created was delicious. Somehow, his perfect senses allowed him to mix the perfect balance of condiments and smells, the taste always a great treat for her senses.

By the end, she was stuffed, but in the best way.

They ended up on the couch, offering gifts.

She'd given him a new instrument. An old sitar, found in an old Parisian music shop. To remind him of his travels.

_"Dearest Erik, _

_I love you. To our first Christmas together, and I hope there will be plenty more. You're one of the best things to ever happen to me._

_Much love._

_Your Christine."_

He'd taken this card into his hands with trembling fingers, his heart close to starting again. What joy he'd felt, again, to know she loved him, to see it written, to realize she truly loved him, and this was real, and not a dream.

His first Christmas.

Not even when he'd given his old Christine lessons had they celebrated together.

He'd given her the week off, and while she'd wished him a merry one, he hadn't been gifted anything.

What do you offer an Angel, after all? He couldn't hold it against her.

And the second one, well. He'd been leaving her to write his Don Juan, and she'd been playing married with her lover. Not the best time to celebrate either.

He'd taken his time to find her a gift.

With luck, it would only be the first of many.

But in any case, he'd only ever wanted the best for her.

_"__You are my heart, my life, my music. I wish you the merriest of Chrismas, my love._

_Yours in all things, forever,_

_Your Erik."_

She'd nearly cried, too, of happiness, but slowly taken off the wrappings around her gift.

It was a rather narrow box, and inside was a beautiful set of earrings and a necklace. They were just sparkly enough to tell her how precious they were, but light enough to be worn when she wanted it. The earring were small round sapphires, and the necklace silver, a sapphire music note inside a small circle of diamonds.

"For your eyes," he whispered as he attached it to her. "You look beautiful, as always."

"They really do match my eyes."

And they offset her hair, a great balance with her dress too.

He kissed her then, feeling her lipstick on his lips. It was unusual for her to wear some, and he was distracted by the taste.

"How do you find it?" she whispered in his ear. "I was told it's bright red as blood."

"It's delicious, but not as much as you."

"Mmm. You're teasing me now."

"Not as much as you."

She smiled, and took his hand to dance along to their music. He slowly, gently rocked her around the room, avoiding furniture as they glided on the tiled floor. And then she began singing, a song of love and loss, curled in his arms, her head on his shoulder.

He held her close, so close, so near his heart.

Every day with her had been a blessing, a joy he wasn't sure he deserved, but by now, he would never cease to hope for more time with her, for more joy to befall her, for more success on her career.

He loved her, more than anyone else before, and he wanted everything for her. Holding her in his arms always felt the most precious treasure in the entire Universe, and he felt the presence of the divine when she was with him, directing her eyes on his.

She sang, and her voice brought him to pieces, to his knees.

He would never, ever, get enough.

But this was a question for another day.


End file.
